A Study in Rum
by Nytd
Summary: One wicked and clever pirate. One singular and brilliant detective. One hundred and fifty years apart. An impossible meeting? Perhaps just improbable... Crossover with Pirates of the Caribbean.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I hope that readers will find that they have to be neither a devout Sherlockian, nor a rabid pirate enthusiast to enjoy the story, but that if they are one or the other, or even better, both, like myself, they will have fun seeing the two fandoms combined. :D

A very special thanks to Damsel-in-stress for proof reading the story and altering my spelling, where needed, to the British version in order for me to give my Watson a tad more authenticity.

~~o~~

A Study in Rum 

_"And yet there should be no combination of events for which the wit of man cannot conceive an explanation." _

Holmes to Watson in _The Valley of Fear_.

~~o~~

In all the long years of my intimate association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there have been many singular incidents which I have witnessed in our adventures together, yet even the countless hours that I have spent chronicling them will never manage to adequately provide the depth and scope of the variety, nor to afford them the service they are due. Still, as much as I have been able, I have endeavoured to provide an account of some of these matters in sufficient detail that future readers will be able to envision, in some small way at least, the fascinating escapades that I have been privileged to accompany him upon.

Although I have in the past stated the fact that Holmes was extraordinarily successful at finding explanation and conclusion for so many individuals who sought his help, I would daresay that the man himself would dispute me as to the proportion of cases that he considered a complete triumph. True enough, he would admit adequate closure for better than two and ninety percent of them, but how well I know him to be vexed by a myriad of tiny details that he was not able to always account for. Thus it is that his estimation of his own success, in comparison to mine, remains somewhat diminished.

Of all the cases so concluded in this incomplete fashion, none could be stranger and less prone to absolute rational explanation than the one that began late in summer while I was in residence at our Baker Street address.

It was a sultry August Wednesday, perhaps two weeks after Sherlock Holmes had most reluctantly been required to accompany me to the soiree thrown by Lady Agatha Broadnax, a woman of considerable social position and formidable strength of will. Holmes had, several weeks beforehand, been responsible for the return of Lord and Lady Broadnax's kidnapped daughter, and in celebration of her child's safe return, revels of a grand proportion were organized immediately. To my dear friend's great consternation and dare I even say dismay, Lady Broadnax had declared the festivities, quite publicly, to be thrown in Sherlock Holmes's honour, and without sufficient excuse at hand to be able to put forth his regrets, he had found himself obligated to don tie and tails and be subjected to the seemingly endless attentions of a generous number of Lady Broadnax's female confederates.

When at last the stroke of midnight had allowed him to make good his escape, I found myself rattling along merrily home in the four-wheeled cab courteously assigned to us by Lady Broadnax, across from my companion, who was slumped in a silent stupor, more completely spent than I had often seen him three days into frenetic pursuit of a difficult case with little sleep and less food.

The days since had done little to revive Holmes's energy, with the unusually warm temperatures sapping the strength of all of London, but even more damaging was the conspicuous lack of interesting criminal circumstance. Although the papers were full enough of reports of increasing assaults due to tempers shortened by the heat wave, one concerning a minor robbery of a local surgeon, Dr. Gray, and the disappearance of Mr. Michael Huggins for the third time in as many months, (Mr. Huggins had a reputation for periodically keeping company with women other than his wife) nothing whatsoever had appeared to pique Holmes's curiosity.

When I returned to Baker Street upon completion of my rounds for the day, I found my companion slumped silently near the cold fireplace, his long frame draped across the chair and quite nearly as inanimate as any item of furniture in the room. He spoke not a word of greeting, but merely glanced in my direction, eyes devoid of their normal lustre raking over my person once lazily before returning to stare at the book in his lap. Slowly he flipped one page after another.

As I had known, from the duration and intimate level of my association with him, his inactivity for the past weeks, coupled with his harrowing and exhausting experience at the hands of Lady Broadnax, as well as the lack of corruption and misdeeds offered up for scrutiny in the papers or even by Scotland Yard, had led to Holmes reaching for his seven percent solution in an attempt to provide some form of stimulation for that formidable brain of his. I needed not my medical degree, nor his keen powers of observation to know that to be the current state of affairs; his rolled up left sleeve and the presence of the familiar Morocco case on the table at his elbow painted the picture well enough.

Seeing that he was disinclined to move or speak, I hung up my hat up on the peg and proceeded to seat myself in the matching velvet-lined chair opposite his.

"Was the bisque up to standards today?" he asked without looking at me, after several moments' pause. Another page whisked quietly as he flipped it.

"Oh, yes, quite the usual outstanding...my dear Holmes!" I cried suddenly with a little laugh, wondering how it was that he had concluded what it was I had eaten for lunch. Immediately I dropped my gaze to my chest, thinking that I would find a telltale stain that I had not noticed on my way home. Upon finding none, I checked each cuff, still coming up empty handed.

Holmes lifted his hand from the book and pointed one long finger toward my feet but, as with my shirt and my sleeves, I found no trace of my midday repast, and my expression must have bespoken my puzzlement.

With his elbow remaining on the arm of the chair and his head still propped up by his hand, Holmes deigned to enlighten me.

"It has been exceedingly dry as of late, but I saw, as you passed me, that by the colour of the road dust that clings to your trouser cuffs that your duties have taken you in the vicinity of Regent Street today, and whenever they do, my dear Watson, you have the very predictable custom of dining at Café Royal. Unless your ordering habits differ when you are not in my company, I have yet to witness you ever request anything but the Bolognese or the bisque. Seeing that your white shirtfront remains completely so, and knowing that to your great consternation you end up displaying remains of the Bolognese upon it more occasions than not, I must infer that you therefore ordered the lobster bisque."

"I might not have dined at Café Royal at all; I might have stopped at the Trocadero," I replied, letting a small measure of defiance slip into my comment.

"True, but highly unlikely for a man of your considerable practicality and less considerable means, my good doctor," he replied with great confidence. "Besides, you are quite more than an hour beyond when you said you expected to return, and since you were whistling to yourself as you climbed the stair, it would be reasonable to assume no dire medical emergency has accounted for your tardiness, and that your delay is due to a pleasant and lengthy conversation you have lingered over with Nichols, the proprietor of Café Royal, as is your wont when he is on premises."

I sighed in resignation, knowing that Holmes knew he was correct in his inferences, and too anxious to hand over to him that which I had in my possession to argue the merits of other possibilities.

"Well," I said cheerily, as he sank back into his armchair torpor and resumed his page turning, "despite my less than considerable means, I have a brought gift for you, my dear Holmes."

"Pray tell me that you have purchased new ammunition for that excellent revolver of yours, Watson, and that you have found it within your heart to put it to humane use the next time that Lady Broadnax deems it necessary to demonstrate to me her undying gratitude."

I tried not to offer too extensive a roll of the eyes at my companion, for I understood well that he possessed an inherent aversion to spending great lengths of time exclusively in the company of the fairer sex, and that the pack of laced and bejewelled hyenas at the party, once they'd learned that they had the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes within their collective grasp, had taxed him more thoroughly with their queries and their flirting than if he had been slogging through the mud of the Thames' banks all night looking for footprints.

"I do believe she expressed great enthusiasm when I told her we would both be delighted to attend her party on All Hallows Eve," I said. My feigned innocent air did not fool Holmes, and the dark look he shot me said that I should not even consider speaking of such things in jest.

"Here," I said, holding out my gift as a peace offering and watching his lacklustre gaze drift down to the evening newspaper in my hand. Perhaps three seconds passed before he raised an eyebrow at it, and then a tiny hint of life flickered in his eyes as he realized my offering did not consist merely of a section of paper and print, but that which was contained in the writing.

"_Something_ has happened?" he asked, and my familiarity with the subtleties of his person informed me that by the way he said 'something' that he meant something that I had deemed to be of interest to him.

"Murder," I said, still holding the paper and waiting patiently for him to take it.

"Hmm." His response was decidedly less than enthusiastic, but he lifted his head from his hand to let it fall languidly back against the chair. "A shooting?"

"Yes, and quite a bad business at that," I persisted, hoping to engage him further.

"And what was the motive?" he asked, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Apparently robbery," I said, frowning as Holmes appeared disinterested in the bait I was dangling. I had an intense dislike for those periods of time when my companion fell into his dark moods, and I suppose that it is my well-ingrained habits as a physician that led me to do my best to better the ills of my friend as well as those of my patients; in this case the cure for cocaine might be had with an elixir of mystery.

"Here, I shall read the post to you," I said, retracting the paper and turning to the page containing the police notices, proceeding to the one to which I had been referring.

'_Owlsmoor, Berkshire: During the late evening of Tuesday, the twenty-first of August, _[it said]_ at about eleven o'clock p.m., a gunshot was heard coming from the residence of Mr. Henry Matthews. Upon hearing the noise, the alarmed housekeeper, Mrs. Alice Clayton, found her employer lying upon the floor, covered in blood from an obviously fatal wound: a single gunshot to the face. Further details remain undisclosed at this time, but upon taking up the investigation, Inspector Lestrade, well-know agent of Scotland Yard, has commented that the motive for the attack appears to have been robbery. Nothing was found removed from the premises to the best of Mrs. Clayton's knowledge, and current speculation is that Mr. Matthews disturbed an intruder in the act of breaking and entering and was subsequently shot. The intruder then fled before acquiring anything of value. Mrs. Clayton comments that her employer of three years, formerly of Cornwall, had been concerned in recent days that an attempt might be made to steal a flask in his possession, long considered to be a valuable family heirloom. The item in question is currently in the hands of Scotland Yard, having not been obtained during the robbery attempt. It is expected that quick resolution of the case shall be achieved by such an experienced investigator as Inspector Lestrade, and that final details shall be forthcoming without delay.'_

Holmes had closed his eyes as his head still lay back against the chair, and I allowed myself a little smile. To the untrained observer, it would seem as though he had been utterly bored by the time that I had finished reading the brief bulletin, but I knew better. Rather than exhibiting apathy, his familiar posture was one of those adopted when in he was in deep consideration of a matter. I kept silent for some time, waiting for the moment when he would speak.

"I must admit it curious," he said at last, raising his head and opening his eyes, "that a man with an item of such considerable worth in his possession, and one that he indeed fears to have an attempt made upon shortly, takes so few precautions as to be caught unawares and shot at close range in his own home. Certainly the...ah! If I am not mistaken by the sound of the bell, that will be Lestrade himself at the door."

When I raised an eyebrow he explained himself as he rose. "His particular ring is familiar, is it not? Three distinct peals of the bell nearly always, and now here is that light step and awkward left foot of his upon the stairs."

With that, Holmes gained his feet and went to the door. "Good evening, Lestrade," he said as he opened it quickly, revealing the inspector standing on the other side of the threshold with his hand poised to knock.

"Holmes," he said with a scowl of puzzlement and a nod of acknowledgment, as he dropped his hand and strode past and into the room. "Evening, Dr. Watson," he added affably upon seeing me.

"A pleasant evening to you, Inspector," I replied, watching as he took the seat that Holmes had just vacated, as directed by my companion.

Holmes himself fetched his pipe and lit it as Lestrade and I exchanged a few comments about the torpid August air that had closed in upon London, and then turned to the inspector expectantly. "What is it that I can do for you, Lestrade?" he asked, setting himself across from where we were seated and draping one leg over the other. He flung one arm casually across the back of the sofa.

"I have a favour to ask, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade began. "There is a question I need an answer to."

"About the Matthews robbery?"

"No, about the Broadnax business."

"It seems to me that matter is quite concluded."

"That it is, but there are a few particulars I would like to clear up before I make my final report," Lestrade replied.

"Ah, I see. You wish to know how it was that I knew that Roberts was lying about the Peregrine falcon."

"No, that was plain enough," Lestrade said in an odd soft voice. "What I really want to know is whether or not you're going to accept either of the marriage proposals you were offered at Lady Broadnax's party."

Lestrade's question was so unexpected, and Holmes's sudden look of shock and irritation so profound, that I found myself loosing an uncontrolled snigger that hastily turned to a bout of genuine choking when I tried to disguise it as a cough. Clearly gossip from the infamous party had made it as far as Scotland Yard, and Lestrade chuckled to himself merrily in a jovial if not slightly self-satisfied way. As Holmes re-marshalled his composure rather quickly, I had to run for a draught of water to settle my fit. I caught his next remark to the inspector as I started to return to my chair.

"I do not plan to accept either of them, nor do I plan to accept that which I have received earlier this summer from the Widow Usher," he said sternly, sending me into a renewed frenzy of hacking at the thought of the widow, a robust and stout woman ten years Holmes's senior who had been overly persistent some months before with her amorous pursuits of my dear friend, after he had gallantly restored her lost fortune to her. Without making it quite back to my chair, I did an about-face, earning myself a dark look from Holmes as I hurried past to fetch myself more water, coughing and spluttering away.

"Ah, well it's three more offers than I can say I've had, Holmes," Lestrade said pleasantly, finally abandoning his amusement at my compatriot's expense.

Seemingly placated to an extent, Holmes simply replied, "Whether that is a blessing or a curse is for each of us to decide for himself." He shot me a rather accusing glance as I managed to return to my armchair, puffing away steadily on the pipe he held between his teeth.

"So, Lestrade, this Matthews business," he put forth again.

"A bungled break-and-enter is all," Lestrade replied with a dismissive gesture. "Poor fellow surprised a burglar and got a bullet through the nose for his pains. The matter should be cleared up by week's end."

"Any notion as to the perpetrator yet?"

"No."

"None at all?"

"Well, there's been talk in Sandhurst of an outsider hanging about lately. Bit of a strange sort too it seems; surely he's as likely as any, and I expect to find him soon," Lestrade replied confidently.

"I see," replied Holmes. "The newspaper reports that nothing was taken."

"As far as we can tell. Mrs. Clayton has been very cooperative in the investigation, and she swears that all is as it should be."

"Including the heirloom flask."

"Including the heirloom flask," Lestrade confirmed with a nod before a slight frown creased his brow. "Odd piece though, if you ask me."

"Odd? In what way?" Holmes asked casually.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it. It's rather plain actually, and I don't even think it's made of silver. Can't see why Matthews would worry so much about anyone taking it; it seems more a bit of old junk to me," Lestrade said with a shrug.

"Really? I should be curious to see it at some point."

"Why, you can see it now," Lestrade said, sitting forward in his chair. "I have it with me still." He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the most unremarkable looking flask and held it out.

Holmes uncrossed his legs and sat forward on the edge of the sofa, taking the flask from the inspector and turning it over slowly in his hands as he examined it front to back. "Yes, it does appear to be quite old," he mused quietly, "and I concur, Lestrade, that upon first glance, of little intrinsic value. This is tin, and dented tin at that, wouldn't you say?"

Lestrade nodded.

Holmes then turned the flask on end, presumably to check for a craftsman's mark, and all three of us could hear the light _glug_ a liquid of some sort sloshing its way to the top end.

"Why, it's full," I said, sitting forward in my own seat to have a better look at the curious item in Holmes's long fingers.

"What's in it?" Holmes asked of Lestrade, who shrugged and shook his head.

"Brandy, I suppose. I haven't bothered to open it yet."

"Hmm," Holmes mused, righting the tin flask and then gesturing at the inspector with it. "May I?"

Lestrade shrugged again. "Be my guest," he replied with a tone that said he obviously couldn't understand why my friend felt the need to open it.

Holmes then proceeded with all the pomp and grace of a veteran oenophilist to first remove the cap and pass it once or twice under that keen aquiline nose of his, seeking to detect any odour upon it.

"A trace of sulphur...most interesting," he said, setting the cap aside, and then likewise proceeding with the open mouth of the flask, as if it were a fine vintage wine. "Yes, obviously sulphur, and here is something more...copper, I think, or perhaps iron, but decidedly metallic in nature."

Holmes then turned at once to me.

"Watson, your glass please," he said, gesturing at the empty one at my elbow that I had fetched in order to quell my cough. I handed it over to him and watched as he carefully poured a very small measure of some clear liquid into the bottom of it and turned to hold it up to the dwindling sunlight still penetrating the two front windows. Slowly he swirled the contents around the glass, all his attention trained on it. When at last he faced us again, even Lestrade had sat forward in his chair.

"Well, there's nothing left for it," Holmes said, then giving a light shrug. He tipped the meagre contents of the glass passed his lips, swirled it around his mouth, and promptly spat it back in the glass. No _cognoscenti_ ever did so with more aplomb, and Lestrade and I waited for Holmes to pronounce judgment upon the fluid as he closed his eyes in analytical reverie.

"No character of alcohol, no detectable trace of toxin, certainly an elevated mineral content, but most decidedly, gentlemen," Holmes concluded as he opened his eyes and looked at us, "nothing more than plain water."

"Water?" Lestrade queried.

"Water!" I ejaculated. "Why on earth, Holmes, would someone kill a man over an old tin of water?"

"If that is in fact what has happened," Holmes said, and I could see that the spark of interest that had earlier kindled in his eyes had now been fanned to a robust flame by his analysis, "then _that_, my dear Watson, is precisely the question we must answer."

~~o~~


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **As I've commented to some of you already, readers will recognize who is who and a bit of what is going on before Holmes and Watson do, but I hope you enjoy watching them try to figure it out. Regular readers of mine will also recongize the fact that I've borrowed from my own PotC writings just a little here. :)

Chapter Two

~~o~~

It would not be an exaggeration of the truth to say that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, as he strode briskly along Baker Street and then out of sight, was an unhappy man. Such was often the case for him when leaving the company of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and that summer night would prove no different.

Upon declaring the contents of the plain, dull flask to be nothing more than water with an exceptionally high sulphur and mineral content, Holmes had recapped the container and handed it back to Lestrade, evidently having concluded that he had nothing more to gain from its further examination.

What he did deem he would gain supplementary information from, however, was inspection of the body of the unfortunate Mr. Matthews, and after a bit of persuasive haggling with Lestrade that obviously left the inspector feeling somewhat unsettled as the notion that all was not right with his world crept upon him, Holmes had arranged for us to view the remains first thing in the morning.

After watching Lestrade turn the corner, Holmes stepped away from the window and addressed me in a familiar manner of mildly suppressed excitement. "I should value your opinion on the morrow, dear Watson. Will you have time between your duties to accompany me on my visit to Mr. Matthews?"

"I would be delighted to," I said, infected by the energy that was welling back up within my companion. "Thursdays are always the slowest day of my week, so I shouldn't find it difficult to accomplish my one call immediately after breakfast."

"Splendid," said he, as he began rubbing his hands together, "that shall leave us the afternoon for a visit to Owlsmoor, if that's quite agreeable?"

"Of course," I replied, already eagerly anticipating the next day's adventure.

"Then I believe we have time for a little Mendelssohn before supper," he said, opening the Stradivarius's case and lovingly amending her tuning until she would sing true for him. "I shall play the sonata for you, my dear fellow, if you would be so kind as to find the train we will require for our venture tomorrow."

By 'the sonata' he meant a favourite one of mine, and his as well, which I often called for when his mood left him inclined to accept requests from me, and with considerably more life to his being than when I had first come in, he launched into the _Allegro vivace_.

For my part, I was content to plan our travel arrangements with the Bradshaw, and quite pleased to observe Holmes held in thrall by the music he so loved as it freed him from his deep melancholy and the tenacious clutches of his drug.

~~o~~

During my career I have had cause to witness many a post-mortem and to view numerous cadavers, but I must say that I was not entirely prepared for what I would encounter with our visit to the late Mr. Henry Matthews.

I was, however, prepared for the fact that Lestrade would not be completely pleased to see us that morning. Shortly after I had finished my visit with the ailing Mrs. Turcotte, I had met up with Holmes and proceeded to Scotland Yard, whereupon the two of us had been accompanied to the police morgue by the inspector.

"I really still don't see the need," Lestrade was saying unhappily as we walked along the dim corridor together.

"While that may be true, Lestrade," Holmes said pleasantly, after the subtlest of sideways glances in my direction which said the inspector's comment had not revealed anything novel, "I am in your debt once more for indulging my whims."

While it is true that Inspector Lestrade is only a fraction as gifted as my dear friend in the matters of detection, that doesn't mean he is at all dull, and I could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes that he recognized the vaguest hint of sarcasm in Holmes's statement.

"Indulge me upon another point while we walk," Holmes continued, redirecting the conversation away from Lestrade's failure to grasp the need for any further examination of a body with such an obvious cause of death. "I gather you have some notion as to the character of Mr. Matthews from your interview with the housekeeper?"

Lestrade nodded. "Mrs. Clayton was very clear about that. It seems he kept to himself, and rarely had company."

"A retiring disposition; I must say I am not surprised to hear it."

"I'm sure you're not," Lestrade replied, a pale infusion of sarcasm of his own in his words.

"And what of his habits?" Holmes asked, paying no heed to Lestrade's comment.

"The housekeeper informed me that Mr. Matthews was a man of apparent great wealth, although not one to advertise it. She couldn't say how he had come into his fortune, only that she thought it seemed to have been some time ago from his occasional comments. She reported that he was generous to her in her salary, in return for her minding her business and making sure that others did as well when it came to his affairs.

"She also tells me that he had discerning tastes in clothes, food, wine and horses, but on the odd week's end, a fondness for rum."

"Interesting. Any notion as to the man's temperament?"

"Tolerant of the housekeeper, if not somewhat terse at times, but she reports that the one or two times his ire was up that it was not a pleasant thing to witness."

"Violent?" Holmes asked as we approached our destination.

"Known to occasionally throw a bottle or knock a glass off a table, but never raised a hand against the housekeeper. Cuffed the young groom once or twice for shirking his duties in the stable, but..."

"No more than any master might discipline his inferiors," Holmes finished for him, provoking another irritated glance from our escort.

"I still don't know why you want to see him," Lestrade replied yet again as our trio halted at the door. "The man was shot by an intruder, he's dead, and that's that. You're wasting your time, Mr. Holmes, if you ask me."

"That may be true, my good Lestrade," Holmes said, clapping him on the shoulder convivially, "but though my time is my own to waste as I see fit, I shall not waste any more of yours. I am certain you have more worthwhile pursuits than viewing a cadaver you have already examined."

Lestrade nodded reluctantly.

"Then I shall not detain you further," Holmes said, indicating that Lestrade was free to go.

I could see that Lestrade didn't miss the implied dismissal in Holmes's polite consideration of his other duties.

"Just try not to stir things up too much," he admonished my companion sternly. "I'd like to have this wrapped up by week's end, and it's just like you to look for trouble where there isn't any. I won't be happy if this case is delayed."

"I should think not." Holmes gave Lestrade the most congenial smile he could manage, and we both watched the man give us one last dubious look and then turn to retrace his steps to the exit.

Holmes sighed as he watched Lestrade retreat. "If only he were open to more imaginative considerations...but it seems as though once again we must endeavour to shed more light in the dark corners of the good inspector's investigation. Perhaps someday..." said Holmes, slightly wistful.

"But for now," he said, taking my elbow and leading me through the door he had opened. "_À jeune chasseur, il faut un vieux chien_."

Henry Matthews lay in his next to final resting place, covered in a coarse cloth. I find it intiguing how after such a narrative as Lestrade had given us concerning the man, I usually form a notion as to what the appearance of the victim should be like. Often I am wrong, but the details with which I am confronted upon viewing remains at least fit into what one might be able to reconcile with one's pre-conceived notions. Such was not the case with Mr. Matthews.

Holmes gestured to indicate that I should do the honors, and he leaned over my shoulder as I drew back the shroud. Under it lay a man of perhaps fifty, but his appearance did not at all meet my expectations of what a retiring country gentleman of accustomed affluence and discriminating tastes should appear like, and I paused in place with the cloth still in my hand.

"My word!" I gasped softly.

"Well! This fellow has certainly led an interesting life," Holmes commented as we both gazed at the countenence before us.

Although his complexion was somewhat fair, it was most obvious that the man had been exposed to a great deal of sun at some point in his past; his weathered features spoke to that. The chestnut hair on his head and his chin, shot through with a generous amount of grey, supported my estimation of his age, but the bullet hole between his eyes was quite obviously not the only major injury the man had ever sustained. A faded scar slashed down his right cheek, and there were perhaps a dozen small scars here and there across his shoulders and torso, the most curious being a perfectly round one, a bit smaller than a shilling, just off the centre of his chest.

"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes asked, apparently speaking of the same wound I had my attention on. "This old salt apparently was very lucky, I think."

Holmes's thoughts had evidently mimicked my own: the scar indicated what likely had been a gunshot to the chest at some time in the past. The only explanations were two: either the aged wound was not was it appeared to be at first glance, or the man had been _extremely_ lucky. Until two nights prior, that is.

"You think him a man of the sea?" I asked.

"Most decidedly," Holmes replied, "at least earlier in his life. This fellow has seen a good deal of sun and weather, and the piercing makes it all the more likely that it was upon the deck of a ship and not in some equatorial location.

"Nor in Afghanistan," Holmes added, giving me a slight acknowledging smile. He then gestured at the unoccupied hole in Matthews's right earlobe, which I had missed.

"Navy?" I asked, finally drawing back the shroud fully.

Holmes shook his head. "Improbable. I should think more likely a merchant marine, although either way I doubt he made his fortune at sea.

"Watson! Look here," he said suddenly with great animation, and he directed my attention to the man's right forearm. There was another faded but more pronounced set of scars. "What did this, would you say?"

"It looks like the sort of thing I've seen with a severe dog bite," I replied, examining what appeared to be perhaps deep tooth marks in nature, "but for the sheer size."

"I'd wager a great deal that no dog made _these_," I heard Holmes say, and I followed his gaze down the man's leg, where great gashes of some sort had healed long ago into cris-crossing scar tissue.

"My god, Holmes! Certainly no dog did that unless it was a great brute of a beast. That looks more as if some sort of wild animal, and a good size one at that inflicted those wounds."

"I concur, Watson," Holmes said, moving on to examine Matthews's fingernails, "although I wouldn't be able to venture a guess as to what. I will venture a theory, however, that our friend here may have spent some time in an exotic locale after all. Perhaps Africa?"

"Perhaps," I replied with a shrug, still contemplating the different creatures I had encountered in my past travels which might have inflicted the great gashes in Matthews's leg.

"Let us roll him up a little, Watson, and see if we can learn anything else," said Holmes, reaching for the body.

Most people I know outside the realm of medicine would fine the notion of voluntary contact with a cadaver most distasteful, but such things rarely disturbed Holmes. He was usually much too absorbed in the particulars of his cases to be put off by so slight a thing as a dead body.

Together we rolled Matthews up on his left side and were able to see that the animal marks on his leg extended completely around it. There was no doubt in my mind that the man must have walked with a limp.

"A man with an uneven gait and, I suspect, a bit of a troublemaker in his youth," Holmes said, and I followed his gaze away from the scars on the leg to Matthews's back.

"Good Heavens!" I cried. "Somebody has beaten this man, and quite severely at that."

"More exactly, somebody has flogged this man, and so we record another vote in favour of Matthews having been at sea, for that is surely the most likely place he received these." Holmes gestured at the pale lines of long-healed wounds across the man's back. "What is your best professional guess at to the age of these marks, Watson?"

"It's difficult to say with certainty, but I would say decidedly older than two decades, if not three," I replied.

"Really? And on what changes do you base your conclusion?" Holmes asked curiously, lens in hand as he bent to scrutinize the scars.

I admit to indulging myself a small congratulatory smile. "Why no changes at all, my dear Holmes," I replied smugly, "but every military man knows that it's been twenty years since the Royal Navy abolished flogging as a means of punishment, and it had been against public opinion well before that." I waited for my companion to congratulate me on my logic.

Holmes frowned as he looked up from his glass. "Surely we've already established it to be unlikely Mr. Matthews was a Navy man," he chastised me gently, and my smile faded. "Still," he said, trying to cushion the blow to my ego, "I do agree with your estimations, Watson; it seems to me a man who was able to retire a very wealthy country gentleman must have been clever enough to have learned his lessons young and learned them once, especially one such as the cat might have taught him."

"Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes looked up as we laid Matthews back in place and a young constable entered the room with a box in hand.

"Inspector Lestrade said that you'd be wanting to see these," the young man said, gesturing with the box.

"Ah, good! Matthews's personal effects, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Just set them here, my good man," Holmes said, gesturing to a small table in the corner of the room. The constable did as he was told, and sneaking a last curious glance at my companion, whose reputation, if not his person, was well known throughout the ranks of the Yard, he exited the room.

Holmes went to the box as I draped the shroud respectfully back over Henry Matthews.

"Let us see what our friend deemed it necessary to carry within the depths of his pockets," Holmes said as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation not unlike that of a young boy on Christmas morning. He opened the box and first extracted a crumpled sheet of paper and held it up. "What does this say to you, my dear Watson?"

I shrugged. "He was in a hurry and hadn't time to fold it?"

"Possibly," Holmes replied, "but why else would a man abuse a piece of paper this way? Think upon the occasions when you yourself have done such a thing; what were the circumstances?"

I pondered the matter for a moment or two before answering. "Why, I should think the only times I have crumpled a piece of paper that way were when I planned to discard it."

"Exactly! But apparently Matthews hadn't discarded it; it remained in his pocket for better than five weeks, according to the date visible on a protruding corner. I must therefore infer that the contents must have agitated or frustrated the man in some way, and after crumpling it in a temper, he shoved it into his pocket and saved it rather than discarding it.

"Let us see what vexed this man enough that he crushed the news upon it," Holmes said, opening and smoothing out the sheet of paper.

Having finished re-shrouding the body, I joined my companion to look over the paper. Upon it, curiously enough, was emblazoned an advertisement for the upcoming celebration of the seventy-fifth birthday of Admiral Sir George Greville Wellesley. The festivities had been ordered by Her Majesty herself, and were to not only include a grand ball and fireworks, but a display of Royal Naval might with a parade of ships up the river, also to be accompanied by some of the grandest old vessels from the quarters of the globe were Wellesley had served: India and the West Indies.

"This man held a grudge against Sir George?" I asked, unable to fathom why the celebration would provoke a response of such irritation.

"I think not, Watson, but let us proceed further before we infer any specifics from this document," Holmes replied, setting the sheet of paper aside and reaching into the box again. "Halloa! What have we here?"

Holmes held up what appeared to be a two-inch bit of ivory on a gold setting and let it dangle from his long fingers.

"My God, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "That's a tooth!"

"Yes, and one that I wager formerly hung in the place of honor at Henry Matthews's right ear," Holmes said, narrowing his eyes as he thought for another moment. "You know, Watson, unless I miss my mark, this belonged to whatever gave the man those scars on his leg and possibly his arm."

"A trophy of revenge?" I speculated.

"Quite." Holmes was delving back into the box, and sifting through a handful of coins, banknotes and three peanuts in amongst them. Holmes eyed one and added it to his mental catalog of the box's inventory as I picked up the watch that lay ignored in a corner.

"Aren't you going to have a look at his watch?" I asked, having experienced several times first-hand the information my dear friend could discern just from the scrutiny of a personal timepiece.

Holmes was still contemplating the peanut upon his palm and shook his head. "I expect to gain nothing more from it other than the facts that it has run down in the two days since he died, it is an expensive piece as would befit a man of Matthews's station, and that there are a few scratches on the back from when he wound it after his indulgence in rum once a fortnight."

"Oh." I gazed at the face, and found Holmes was correct; it appeared quite expensive, and had stopped working in the neighborhood of ten o'clock, probably the night before. Although I quite anticipated the handfull of small scratches Holmes had predicted near the keyhole when I turned it over, I certainly never expected that which I would also find, and my jaw dropped open of its own accord.

"I really think you ought to have a look at this," I said, and upon hearing the gravity in my voice, Holmes interrupted his musings to glance over my shoulder.

"Well, well, well," he said after raising an eyebrow at my discovery. "It certainly appears as though we have found some additional dark corners in this matter."

Perhaps for another half minute, we both stared back at the watch's engraved grinning skull gazing up at us from the palm of my hand.

~~o~~

_À jeune chasseur, il faut un vieux chien:_ Someone inexperienced needs someone more experienced to show him the ropes. (Literally: A young hunter needs an old dog.)

Oh, and Holmes plays the first movement of Mendelssohn's second Violin Sonata in F Major. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

~~o~~

While the skull and I stared at each other for another moment, Holmes rummaged through his own pockets to produce a small sheet of notebook paper and a pencil, and then indicated that I should lay the watch down upon the table.

Quickly he used the pencil to make a rubbing of the engraving, and when he was done, there was no question that the skull and crossed swords depicted in pencil could be anything else than a representation of the Jolly Roger.

"Holmes, what..."

"No time for that now, Watson," Holmes said, replacing the items back in the box quickly, except for the earring, that is. "If we hurry, and if indeed you don't mind sacrificing your lunch for the moment, we might have time for a visit to the museum before our train."

"The _museum_?"

"Of natural history," Holmes said, dangling the tooth suggestively before slipping it into his pocket. Upon seeing the look of disbelief on my face, he took me by the arm and ushered me back out of the morgue. "Our good friend Lestrade will never miss it, as he deems it irrelevant to his investigation," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "I do, however, plan to return it as soon as we find out what it is."

"Which you hope to do at the British Museum, Natural History," I replied, catching up with him at last.

"Yes, I may be a little optimistic in hoping they can identify the former owner of this," Holmes replied, "but it can't harm anything to ask, and yet it may help a great deal to find out."

~~o~~

The entrance to the B.M.N.H. was a grand and elegant affair of terracotta through which Sherlock Holmes and I hurriedly passed. We quickly learned the wing we needed from a helpful curator, and that the man we most assuredly wanted to speak with was a Dr. Hastings.

Walking through several great halls full of preserved specimens from around the globe, we passed through the one displaying a large variety of reptiles, and came to the door the curator had told us was the office of Dr. Hastings, chief authority in the matters of identification by means of bone, or hair, or tooth.

Holmes knocked, and we waited several minutes without reply; once more he rapped on the door, a bit less patiently than the first time. With no answer upon the third attempt, I could see that my compatriot was visibly disappointed.

"Bad luck, Watson, bad luck," he said. "It would make all the difference to know where this comes from, but I suppose we shall have to try back later."

We had just turned away from the office, when we each heard the click of the latch, and the door swung open halfway to reveal a woman standing on the other side. She peered over her wire-rimmed spectacles at us with intelligent eyes the colour of pewter, and despite her rather bookish appearance, she appear to be, beyond the glasses and the haphazard bun her cinnamon coloured hair had been pulled into, quite a singularly attractive woman.

"May I help you?" she asked, her gaze going from Holmes to myself and then back.

"Ah, we had thought no one was here," Holmes replied.

"I'm so sorry," the woman responded. "I sometimes get caught up in my work and don't notice things like a knock at the door right away. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long?"

"Not at all, Miss Hastings," Holmes replied, "it is we who should be apologizing to you for disturbing your work. We came to ask a question of your father."

"Please come in," she said pleasantly, opening the door to let us pass. We entered a large room with high windows on one wall, and every other inch of wall space covered in tall shelving containing hundreds of books and manuscripts. Through a door in the wall to the left was another room full of similar shelving, upon which were countless specimens of bone, and skulls, and partial skeletons, all arranged systematically and labelled.

"My father is away for several days, but I would be glad to help you. _If_," she added with a delightful smile, "you tell me how it is that you knew I was his daughter. I don't believe we've ever met before."

Holmes graced her with a charming smile of his own. "I must beg your forgiveness once again already," he said, turning to indicate me as he spoke. "This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson," he informed her as we exchanged pleasantries, "and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

The young lady shook hands with him once she had let go of mine. "Well, that would certainly explain why you knew who I was," she remarked with another smile, "but do indulge me as to how. Most people simply assume I'm his secretary."

Holmes tapped the hollow of his throat with one long finger, causing Miss Hastings to appear slightly puzzled, and then to catch on to what he'd been indicating about the same moment I did. We both glanced at the necklace she wore bearing a delicate, stylised 'H' on it.

"A gift from your father, I believe," Holmes explained.

"It was a gift, yes, but he could have been my husband," Miss Hastings replied evenly, an elfin smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth as she challenged Holmes's theory.

Holmes gave her an indulgent smile. "True, but you wear no wedding band," he added in support of his presumption.

Miss Hastings, apparently, was not yet satisfied with my companion's explication. "Perhaps I remove it during the course of my work."

"Perhaps, but then the mark would remain upon your finger," Holmes answered, calmly holding his ground.

"It might have been that I am newly married, and so no mark has yet been created," she continued, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

I had to admit that I was impressed she had risen to the challenge that far, and I turned from her back to Holmes to see how he would answer.

"Possible," Holmes conceded graciously, "but it would therefore mean that you had married a man at least twenty-five years your senior, for I saw the portrait of the good Dr. Hastings in the gallery."

A definitive answer, I recalled thinking, amused at the woman's pluck, but confident all along that Holmes would prevail. Until her next statement, at which even Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps I had married his son."

Holmes gestured dismissively. "Impossible."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, clearly intrigued as to what he would say.

"Dr. Hastings's only son and, I believe, your elder brother, was killed amidst most unfortunate circumstances some years ago," Holmes replied very gently. "My belated condolences, Miss Hastings."

"Thank you," she said quietly, her hand still on her necklace. "You are, however, mistaken on one point."

"Which is?"

"The necklace was a gift from my brother," she replied.

"I would have then argued," Holmes remarked, " that you bear a striking resemblance to both your father's portrait, and your late brother."

Miss Hastings looked to me in askance.

"Mr. Holmes was consulted _unofficially_ by Scotland Yard in the case of your brother's murder," I explained, knowing as Holmes did, that credit rarely fell at the feet of he who truly deserved it. "He has an unrivalled capacity for recalling names, faces, and any particulars of a case you should happen to require."

"I see." Miss Hastings was quiet for a moment while we waited, and then she seemed to regain herself. "So, what is it that I might do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes explained why we had come. "We had hoped to consult your father on a matter of identification."

"Of?" Miss Hastings asked.

"A tooth," I replied, "and a very large one at that."

"Well, gentlemen, I am confident that I can provide you with the answers you seek; my training has obviously been with the premiere expert in this field."

Holmes did not hide his dubious expression well at all, and it was apparent the perceptive girl could see that he still appeared a little reluctant to settle for Hastings's protégé, even if she was his daughter.

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am most qualified to assist you," the young woman said, an amused smile gracing her features again as she peered at Holmes over her glasses and held out her hand expectantly.

At last Sherlock Holmes took the earring from his pocket. "Can you tell us where this came from, Miss Hastings?" he asked, depositing it upon her outstretched palm.

"Oh, and I thought you were going to have a challenge for me," Miss Hastings said with a fetching laugh. "It obviously came from your pocket."

While Mr. Sherlock Holmes did not immediately laugh, I caught the fact that the young naturalist was teasing him even before she shot us an impish wink and took the earring with her behind a large desk. She moved aside a skull she had obviously been categorizing, and placed the earring upon a dark cloth as she examined it with a magnifying lens for some moments.

"This comes from a very large carnivore, although I shall confidently venture it is not a dog or other canid...possibly felid, but I don't think so..."

She pulled a pair of callipers from a drawer and began a series of measurements of the specimen we had presented her with, and then she paused in thought. "May I ask where you got this? It might help me to narrow it down quicker for you."

"Another man's pocket," Holmes answered dryly, causing Miss Hastings to laugh.

"_Touché_, Mr. Holmes, but might I ask if this is the only tooth in your possession?"

"It is," he replied.

"That makes it more difficult," the young woman said, frowning. "It would be much simpler if I had a few more teeth or a section of the jaw. There are measurements which would be helpful: the distance between teeth, the angle of the muzzle...but alas, it will be slow work trying to pair this single tooth with a match."

"I would be greatly indebted to you if you might make an attempt at identification," Holmes replied. "That knowledge might facilitate the unravelling of a mystery that Dr. Watson and I are currently involved in."

"It is I who am indebted to you, for helping see that my brother's murderer was caught; I am at your service, Mr. Holmes," she replied graciously. "Let me see what I can do today."

"If you need to get in touch with me you may wire me or send a note," Holmes said in parting, giving her the particulars of our address.

"I will let you know as soon as I have any information for you," Miss Hastings replied as she rose from behind the desk to see us out. "Good hunting, gentlemen," she added, shaking each of our hands before rolling up her sleeves and returning to the mystery we had left in hers.

~~o~~

We had managed to just board our train before it headed westward out of the station, and I sat in my seat across the compartment from Sherlock Holmes, who, eyes closed, was obviously lost in deep thought. I knew better than to disturb him until his line of thinking had come to its conclusion, and I waited patiently for him to speak first. When he opened his eyes and met mine, I finally ventured to ask him what he had been considering.

"So what have you been contemplating all this while?" I inquired of him.

"Several things, Watson, several things," he replied absently, "including Miss Hastings."

I admit my ears perked up at this statement from him. "Really?" I asked, doing my very best not to sound too eager.

"Yes."

"Lovely girl, isn't she?" I asked, daring to probe a little deeper.

"Quite."

When a minute had passed with no further comment, I could stand it no more, and endeavoured to continue my line of questioning. "I must say, Holmes," I continued, affecting a degree of nonchalance toward the subject, "that it really is a shame about her brother."

"Tragic."

I tried again. "She's quite charming, really, don't you think?"

"A most agreeable sort, I admit."

"She seems to be remarkably bright," I persisted, trying to find the right avenue to get some sort of more detailed response from him. It took him a moment to realise that I had spoken again before he answered.

"What's that? Oh, certainly, certainly. A quick intellect and great capacity for detailed analysis. Most commendable traits," he said in agreement.

"She's certainly not unattractive," I said, waiting to see if he would comment.

"Hmm?"

"Honestly, Holmes!" I said, frustrated at last. "You notice that blasted 'H' half buried at her collar and the lack of a subtle indentation on her finger within ten seconds of meeting her, but yet you don't even notice that...oh, nevermind!"

Exasperated, I threw up my hands a little, folded my arms across my chest, and watched the English countryside roll by the window.

"That the dress she was wearing showed her excellent figure to its best advantage?" Holmes responded. I'm quite sure my expression at that moment revealed my astonishment at such a statement coming from the man seated across from me.

"Just because I am absorbed in the particulars of a case and preoccupied with catching a murderer, my dear Watson," he continued sternly, clearly bothered, "does not mean that I take no note of such things.

"I am not _dead_, you know," he added with only slightly less annoyance. "However, there are much more pertinent matters at hand than Miss Hastings's admirable attributes, and with as well as you know me, my dear fellow, you certainly understand that I must sieve through all the facts presented and retain only those most relevant to our investigation."

"I know, I know," I muttered, relinquishing the topic.

"I have determined, however, after deliberating over the matter, to call upon her again tomorrow," he said, once more on an even keel.

"Really?" I asked, trying not to let my manner appear too incredulous.

"For certain, Watson," Holmes replied in earnest, "I can see no other course of action."

"Ah, well that's...well..." I found myself quite at a loss as to what to say.

Holmes drew out his pipe, lit it, and puffed along contentedly for a moment. "I do hope that she arrives at the museum promptly. She strikes me as an early riser, and I want to get an early start."

"Ah, so breakfast instead of lunch?" I asked, quite taken aback at my friend's sudden eagerness to meet with the young woman again so soon. "Might it be best to wire the lady an invitation to give her some notice? And a chance to decline of course, should she be otherwise engaged."

"Hmm, what? Yes, yes, I suppose that would be proper," Holmes replied, still apparently mulling over some detail or other. "I shall wire her the moment we get to Sandhurst, but I have no doubt she'll come; I daresay the lady is just as fascinated as I am."

Would that I had ever had the same unwavering confidence as to a lady's reciprocity of interest as Holmes apparently felt. It seemed as though his immense powers of observation had afforded him an advantage that the rest of his gender so sorely lacked.

"When we arrive, I shall go straight to the local constabulary to inform them that I will be visiting Mr. Matthews's home, and if you would be so kind, I shall have you send a wire to Miss Hastings asking her to meet me in the morning. Nine-thirty should do, I think."

"Very good," I replied, unable to disguise my delight at Holmes having apparently found the pretty naturalist intriguing enough to want to spend more time in her company. Such a thing I had previously thought out of the question. "And where shall I tell her to meet you? The Walsingham perhaps?"

Holmes then gave me a look that said he was trying to be infinitely patient with me. "Watson, please, we haven't time for that."

"You haven't time for breakfast?" I asked.

Holmes waved me off. "Perhaps after, but..."

"After _what_?" I interrupted him. "Where exactly is it you would like me to wire her to meet you?"

Holmes heaved a sigh of great proportion. "Why, Watson, quite obviously _the morgue_, my dear fellow."

"The _what_?"

"Morgue, Watson, the morgue. Where Henry Matthews is," Holmes elaborated, and then he frowned. "You don't think she'll be put out, do you? It doesn't strike me that a woman of science such as Miss Hastings would be put off by a cadaver...after all, he's merely been dead a shorter period of time than most of her specimens."

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off the beginnings of a headache that was setting in. "Please let me understand this correctly, Holmes. You want me to wire Miss Hastings on your behalf, and ask her to meet you at _the morgue_ at nine-thirty tomorrow morning."

"Yes, precisely."

"And _why_ do you wish the young lady to join you at the morgue of all places?" I asked, fearing that I really didn't quite want the explanation.

"Why, so she can examine the imprints of the teeth on Matthews' right arm and leg!" he said, as if it should have been quite clear from the start. "It's perfectly obvious, Watson, and I only wish that I had thought of it sooner. She said that if she could have the measurements of the width of the jaws and the characteristics of several other teeth, then it would facilitate her endeavours to categorize the beast."

"I should like to see her endeavour to categorize _you_," I said under my breath, fully disheartened as I realized that Holmes had not deviated from his characteristic lack of interest in the fairer gender.

"What was that, my dear fellow?" Holmes asked absently.

"Nothing."

I left him to his pipe and his thoughts while I wondered just what poor Miss Hastings was going to think when she received an invitation from Mr. Sherlock Holmes to join him at the morgue.

~~o~~

**A/N:** While we meet Miss Hastings in this chapter, who will play a role in the plot, I must inform readers that there will be no romance in this story. Just mystery and fun. :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks, Rosi, for the encouragement!

Chapter Four

~~o~~

We set out for the estate of the late and peculiar Mr. Henry Matthews once Holmes had notified the local police that he was involved in the investigation and I had sent the wire he'd specified to Miss Hastings. Holmes had kept his message brief, a compliment to the young naturalist he had deemed bright enough to make the proper inferences from the somewhat cryptic message.

_Request your presence tomorrow morning, nine-thirty, police morgue.  
__Measurement of bite wound possible._

_S. Holmes._

Not surprisingly, the great house we were to visit was located well outside of any truly populated area, and its grounds backed up to the reaches of the great Wildmoor Heath, an area of desolate but beautiful bog and woodland located between Crowthorne, Sandhurst and Owlsmoor. The large stone edifice appeared to be well over one hundred years old, handsomely done, and adorned with a peculiar if not picturesque railed rooftop platform surrounding the house's chimneys and a central cupola, which had obviously been added to the home much more recently. It was evident that one could access this area on the roof through the cupola and thence view a great expanse of the surrounding countryside in all directions.

Along the drive to the front of the house was a small apple orchard already bearing early fruit, and at the rear of the house was the small but tidy-looking stable Lestrade had informed us about. A stately oak tree grew on each the north and south sides of the house; I could tell as we pulled up the drive that Holmes had taken this all in and likely even more.

"A very private location," he commented off-handedly as we left our cab and walked up to the front door. Twenty seconds after we knocked, the door was answered by an austere-looking, middle aged woman with steel grey hair pulled back tightly from her face, making her stern features appear even more severe.

"Mrs. Clayton, I presume?" Holmes asked, giving her his most cordial smile.

"Yes," she replied hesitantly, clearly regarding us both with some measure of trepidation.

Holmes handed her his card. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Clayton, and I am here in cooperation with Scotland Yard concerning the matter of your employer's death. This gentleman," he said, indicating me, "is my associate, Dr. Watson."

I could see from the look that crossed the housekeeper's face that even in the most secluded corner of Owlsmoor my companion's name and reputation were well known.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she gasped in surprise at the identity of the man upon the doorstep. "Come in, come in, please, sir."

Mrs. Clayton graciously led us to a small but comfortable sitting room and asked that we be seated. Despite the fact that her former employer had not often entertained guests, she was an accomplished hostess, and quickly managed to wangle out of us that we had not eaten since our early breakfast. While Holmes was anxious to begin his interview of the housekeeper and his inspections of the house and the grounds, it was apparent that no such undertaking was going to commence unless Mrs. Clayton saw we were fed first, and fed well.

When at last Mrs. Clayton was satisfied that she had been suitably hospitable, and Holmes had gently protested her offer of another apple tart, she finally sat herself in the chair across from us and smoothed out her apron.

"I imagine you want to ask me questions about the night of the shooting," she said sullenly, apparently settling herself in preparation for some manner of unpleasant interrogation.

Holmes gave the woman a charming smile to put her at ease before he spoke. "Just a few about your employer, Mrs. Clayton," he said gently, "and then there are several points about Tuesday night that I would like to clarify. It shouldn't take long."

"What can I tell you, Mr. Holmes?" the housekeeper asked.

"How long had you worked for Mr. Matthews before he died?"

"Near three years, Mr. Holmes, since not long after he bought the house."

"I see, and in the time that you worked for Mr. Matthews, have there been any additions or renovations to the house?"

"No, sir. Nothing more than a bit of plaster or paint here and there."

"The widow's walk is quite out of place with the style of this old house, Mrs. Clayton, and rather new at that," Holmes added, waiting to see the housekeeper's reaction.

"I don't doubt that, Mr. Holmes, but it had been added to the house before I was taken on," the woman before us replied. "Mr. Matthews had it built immediately after purchasing the estate."

"Curious," Holmes replied. "And how does one access the platform, Mrs. Clayton?"

"I don't rightly know, sir," the housekeeper replied. "I never thought to ask, and he never made it a point to tell me. He paid me well to mind my own business, you see, and a job well-paid is a job well done in my book."

"Yes, certainly," Holmes replied, looking somewhat distant. "And was Mr. Matthews a man of regular habits, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Oh, yes, quite regular. Peculiar, perhaps, but regular," she replied. "Not that there was anything wrong with him, really," she added quickly, perhaps out of fear of speaking any ill of the dead.

"Oh, but who among us doesn't have his peculiarities, Mrs. Clayton?" Holmes said with a congenial smile.

"Quite right, and some of us more than others," I added with a meaningful sideways glance at Holmes while I sipped my tea, which I'm sure he noted but chose to ignore.

"Mr. Matthews was retired from the sea?" Holmes asked her next.

"Yes, he was, Mr. Holmes, and for quite some time."

"Dr. Watson and I have already ascertained that your employer was not enlisted in the navy. Do you know what it was he did; was he a merchant marine perhaps?"

Mrs. Clayton opened her mouth to answer us and then a slight frown crossed her face. "I suppose I don't rightly know, Mr. Holmes. I knew he was a retired sea-captain –I never thought to ask him more than that, I'm afraid."

"He never spoke of his business?" Holmes pressed her gently.

The housekeeper shrugged and appeared earnestly at a loss. "Rarely, sir. Occasionally commented that he had been in nautical acquisitions and redistribution, but I never heard a word of what it was he shipped."

"I see," said Holmes. "Are there any other particulars of his past that he made mention of?"

"Very few, sir. A private individual he was, except on the nights when he took to indulging in rum, maybe once a fortnight; sometimes at the Rose and Crown locally, sometimes off to London for a day or two. Rum'd loosen his tongue on those occasions, Mr. Holmes, although not as much as you might expect. It was then that he might indulge in telling tales of his adventures at sea –more often at the pubs than with me, but just the same, that was all I ever heard of his past."

Holmes nodded, and I could tell he was categorizing and filing facts away systematically in that mental vault of his. "Did Mr. Matthews ever mention where it was he sailed, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Oh, yes, anywhere and everywhere," she replied, "but if you're asking me for specifics...well, after three years of those stories they all sort of run together, if you know what I mean, Mr. Holmes."

"Quite," Holmes replied, taking a sip of his tea. "I was also wondering if you might tell me something of Mr. Matthews's acquaintances."

"I would if I could –never saw any of them more than once or twice," the housekeeper said with a sigh.

"Did he have any visitors the night he was shot?"

"No, none, sir."

"Any companions of the female persuasion?" Holmes asked next.

"No." The woman shook her head and almost appeared sad as she answered.

"None at all?" I asked, sensing as Holmes apparently did, that there was more information to be had than would seem from her one word reply.

Mrs. Clayton looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment and then seemed to compose herself. "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I've been accustomed for three years to keeping Mr. Matthews's business to myself, but I suppose there's no harm in telling you what I know now that he's dead."

"None at all, Mrs. Clayton, none at all," Holmes said reassuringly. "Our goal is not to obtain your employer's personal information for anything other than to facilitate our investigation."

The woman nodded and then heaved another resigned sign. "I always suspected Mr. Matthews to suffer from a broken heart, Mr. Holmes. Although I can't rightly tell you all the details, it seems as though there was but one great love in the man's life, and that she'd run off with another man. Devastated he was, and rarely, when he was in his cups, he'd mutter about revenge and getting her back. That's really all I can tell you."

"Tragic," Holmes commented sympathetically. "Might Mr. Matthews have ever mentioned the lady's name?"

Mrs. Clayton mulled the question over for a long moment and was just beginning to shake her head in negation when her eyes lit up. "You know, I think that once when he was particularly far along, he did mention her name. I do believe her name was Pearl, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes said, rising from his chair. "May we impose upon you further and have a look about Mr. Matthews's rooms?"

"Of course, although I'm sure that those fellows from Scotland Yard could tell you all you need to know; they've been over the upstairs with a fine tooth comb."

"Just the same, I should prefer to see the scene of the crime myself, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes replied, giving her a charming smile and patting his belly, "despite the fact that I may now find it more difficult to climb the stairs than I might have a short while ago."

Pleased with Holmes's offhand compliment of her cooking, Mrs. Clayton led the way to the private rooms of Henry Matthews.

Once again, the late Henry Matthews surprised me, for I had not been expecting what it was we would find in his personal rooms. When Mrs. Clayton led us in it felt like we were stepping into a museum. Clearly she had been correct when she had commented that her employer had sailed anywhere and everywhere, for there was the evidence: a collection of furniture and art and expensive trinkets that clearly had their origins in every corner of the globe.

The sitting room, large, handsome despite the mismatched furniture, and dominated by a large stone fireplace, nonetheless had a decidedly nautical feel about it, and somewhat that of an armoury. For in addition to the paintings and wall hangings that covered the first three walls, the space along each side of the fireplace and over the top of it was covered with a large collection of antique swords, clearly also from the far-flung reaches of Matthews's travels.

Holmes had already swept the room with his hawk-like gaze, and stood in front of the fireplace, peering with interest at the weapon that held the place of honour over the mantel. It was a sturdy blade that had obviously been finely crafted, and the guard fanned out in a form very reminiscent of a shell. Although not as ornate or as expensive as several of the others mounted about the room, it clearly had been its owner's favourite.

"An elegant weapon," Holmes commented softly, and then continued to circle the room in silence, scrutinizing the mantel, the two windows and the carpet. He turned to Mrs. Clayton. "You found your employer lying here, no doubt?" he asked, pointing to a section of the carpet in front of the fireplace. "Feet toward the window and head away from it?"

Mrs. Clayton looked astonished. "Yes, but how did you know which way he was lying, Mr. Holmes?"

"The blood from his head wound," Holmes replied, resuming his examination of the room.

"But there isn't any left!" the housekeeper replied with a trace of defensiveness. "I saw to it myself once Inspector Lestrade said I could clean the carpet."

"And a commendable job you have done too, my dear lady, for here," Holmes replied pleasantly, indicating an area in front of the hearth, "is where you obviously scrubbed the rug most industriously."

Sure enough, once pointed out, the area where the carpet fibres had been more abraded than the rest of the rug was quite apparent.

"The windows and doors were all secured, I take it, with no sign of forced entry?" Holmes continued on without waiting for the housekeeper to comment on his previous observation.

Mrs. Clayton nodded, still dumbstruck by watching Holmes in action. I could readily sympathize with her sense of wonder, for I had been privy to seeing him work on many a case by that time, and still there were times when I too was struck silent in amazement at the conclusions he could draw from the subtlest clue.

"I wonder, Mrs. Clayton," Holmes said, suddenly breaking off from his inspection of the windows and turning abruptly, "if I might have a look about the outside of the house and the grounds?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes," she said, and she guided us back to the main floor.

My companion, not completely unexpectedly, bade me stay in the company of the housekeeper while he searched about outside in his curious but effective fashion, and we chatted while we walked from room to room, observing him from the windows as he circled the house, scrutinizing the outside of the building, the grass, the lay of the land, and footprints that had been made about the area. The look of disgust he wore when he at last straightened up from his hunched examination said all that he couldn't tell me from the other side of the glass I peered through: most of the useful footprints or other marks had already long been obliterated by the exuberant and thorough if not fruitless searching by Scotland Yard.

He stood there on the north side of the house for the longest time, hands in his pockets and head bowed in meditative silence, until at last I noted the subtlest change in his posture as his gaze fell on something at his feet, and he tipped his head a little in inquisitive contemplation of whatever he had seen.

"He's found something," Mrs. Clayton observed in awe, and we both pressed our noses closer to the glass to watch Holmes kneel and retrieve what appeared to be a large clump of greenish sod.

I could see by the intense look in his eyes when they left his hand and met mine through the glass, that not only had he found something, but that he had found _something_, meaning once again, that which he deemed of utmost interest. Before I could manage to open the window to ask him what he had discovered, Holmes's gaze had travelled up the side of the house we were all on, he had moved to plaster his back against the wall, and then marched off deliberately in the direction of the oak that stood guard over the north side of the house nearby. The next thing Mrs. Clayton and I knew, Holmes had set down the clump of sod, kicked off his shoes, shrugged himself out of his jacket and weskit and laid them neatly on the grass, and gazing once overhead to judge the distance, launched his tall frame off the ground to grab the lowest branch and drag himself up into the tree.

Mrs. Clayton looked askance at me without daring to say a word.

"I can assure you this is quite usual," I informed her in the most confident tone I could manage. I'm not sure the reassuring smile I gave her was convincing enough though, as I myself wondered just what it was Holmes hoped to discover as he climbed higher into the oak. By the time he'd got thirty feet above the ground and was nearly hidden in the dense summer foliage of the oak, I have to admit that I was beginning to fret about his safety, and decided to hurry outside lest he should fall.

"I say, Holmes," I called up, "don't you think that's a bit too high?"

"Not at all, Watson!" he called down with barely-suppressed excitement. "It's just high enough!"

"Still, you're making me quite anxious, old fellow. What say you very carefully head back down to earth?" I shouted up through the leaves.

Holmes did as I suggested, but only because it was likely he had ascertained all the information the tree had to yield and not due to my request; a few moments later he was dangling from the lowest branch once more, and let himself drop neatly to his feet next to me.

"Blast!" he exclaimed, hopping around for a moment as he retrieved from the bottom of his stocking'd foot what appeared to be one of the early acorns that had begun falling so late in August. I waited patiently for him to re-dress, and then was carried along in the wake he left behind as he strode briskly for the house once more.

Mrs. Clayton watched Holmes dash past and up the stairs again, me in close pursuit, but I could not answer the questioning look she gave me, for I had no answers yet to give her.

Once again we entered Matthews's study; Holmes quickly made his way to the north wall, which faced the great tree nearby, and held up one long-fingered hand in front of him, his eyes closed in great concentration.

"Ah! There," he said, turning immediately to his left and the end of the mantel. "There is a draft which does not come from the windows, Watson, and it comes in the direction of that wall. Here is where we shall find the passage to the roof."

With that he made a detailed inspection of the mantel, and suddenly cried out, "Ha!" He pressed his fingers up under the corner he had been examining, and with a click of a latch and a creak of a door, a section of the wall north of the fireplace swung inward about three inches. With a look that said I should follow, he made his way into the passage and up the narrow stairs that ended in the cupola on the roof, the French doors of which opened out onto the platform.

While I expected him to examine the widow's walk with all his acute attention to detail, Holmes surprised me by rushing quickly to the north side of the platform and dropping to one knee to examine the railing there. Abruptly he pounded a fist lightly against the rail, apparently in a gesture of triumph, and he quickly gained his feet.

"There you are, Watson!" he said, his keen eyes alight with excitement as he pointed to the rail. There, about four or five inches apart, were two gouges deep enough to have not only scratched the white paint, but to have sunk a slight ways into the wood of the rail.

"Remarkable," I commented facetiously. "What the deuce does _that_," I asked, pointing at the mark, "have to do with anything?"

"Everything, my dear Watson," Holmes replied with a grin, taking me by the arm and leading me back to the door. "In fact, it makes it even more essential that we obtain Miss Hastings's assistance in this matter as soon as possible; would that I had asked her for eight-thirty instead."

Seeing the vacant look that I must have been wearing when we re-entered Matthews's study, Holmes laughed and took me by the arm once more.

"Come along, my dearest fellow, and I shall explain it all to you over a pint of the Rose and Crown's finest," he said, just as someone rang the bell.

"Curious that Matthews should have so few visitors, and yet here is one now," Holmes remarked as we descended the stairs once more. By the time we reached the bottom, Mrs. Clayton was just closing the door, a look of exasperation upon her face.

"Trouble?" Holmes asked her.

"No, it's nothing, just that little waif who's been showing up here each week lately. Apparently the word hadn't reached him that Mr. Matthews is dead," she answered. We all peered out the window at the diminutive figure of a young lad with red hair disappearing at a brisk run down the drive.

"Why is it that he's been showing up here, Mrs. Clayton?" Holmes asked her.

"I can't rightly say, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Matthews would speak with the boy in his study for all of three or four minutes and then send him on his way again, only to meet with him the same the next week; it's almost as if he were making some report."

"_That_," Holmes said suddenly, "is a very astute observation, Mrs. Clayton, but have you any idea what it was the boy might have been reporting?"

"Again, no. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't," the housekeeper replied, apparently disappointed to not be of further service. "I wish I could help you more."

"No matter, no matter," Holmes said very kindly to her. "You have been of great assistance already, my dear lady, and it shall be a good long while before either Dr. Watson or myself sample an apple tart as fine as yours."

Mrs. Clayton blushed a little at the compliment from Sherlock Holmes. "Well, it was a favourite of the master, and so I got a lot of practice with it," she replied demurely.

"Thank you once again for your hospitality," I said as Holmes and I made our way through the door.

"Still..." Holmes said, pausing thoughtfully and then turning to address the housekeeper once more from the stoop, "I wonder if I might ask just one more question of you, Mrs. Clayton?"

"Certainly, sir."

"How long, approximately, would you say that young lad has been coming to report to Mr. Matthews?"

Mrs. Clayton answered straight away. "Why, about five weeks, Mr. Holmes."

The look Holmes shot me told me not to comment, and we both thanked her again and headed for our cab, which Holmes had instructed to wait.

"Five weeks puts us at the date the proclamation for the admiral's birthday celebration was issued," I said once we were ensconced in our cab and headed for the Rose and Crown in Sandhurst.

"Well done, Watson!" Holmes replied, sitting across from me as we rattled the short distance toward town.

"But just what is it that the boy was coming to report to Henry Matthews?" I asked.

"I believe, my dear doctor, the arrival or lack thereof, of the man who was to be Matthews's murderer," Holmes replied. "But here is the Rose and Crown; let us sample the local offerings and see what else we can learn."

I knew that by local offerings he meant more than ale, and I followed Sherlock Holmes into the tavern for the next chapter in our adventure.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

~~o~~

The Rose and Crown is one of those old establishments that seems to have been in existence since the beginning of time, and although not literally true, it would have been difficult for any of the current inhabitants of Sandhurst or their antecedents to have said just how long it had stood on the spot it occupied. To the best of the current innkeeper's knowledge, it had been founded somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1742, making it a most venerable and seasoned watering hole.

Sherlock Holmes and I joined the countless ranks of patrons who had sipped a pint on one of her stools, tucked away in a corner where we could have a private conversation and he could explain to me what the tooth, the clump of sod, the oak tree and scratched paint on the railing of the widow's walk all had to do with each other. He never got the chance however, for at that moment a few of the rougher-looking locals, who had been chatting amongst themselves and repeatedly glancing our way the whole time, stood up and made their way to our corner, most decidedly in an unfriendly fashion.

"Say nothing," Holmes said to me quietly, maintaining a calm outward façade. He glanced up benignly at the pair of grim-looking men who leaned menacingly over our table.

"You're sittin' in Matthews's chair," one of them growled.

"I beg your pardon," Holmes replied affably. "Might you be speaking of Mr. Henry Matthews? I hadn't realized he was here, and he's just the man I was looking for."

"He ain't 'ere," the taller of the two men replied gruffly, "e's dead. Shot in the head two nights ago."

"Oh dear!" Holmes replied, apparently surprised by the news, "that's quite a shock...quite a shock indeed. Well, he won't actually be needing his chair then, will he?"

The shorter of the two men leaned threateningly toward our table. "We keeps a spot open outta respect when a bloke around 'ere dies."

Holmes looked genuinely contrite and stood up. "My apologies, gentlemen. I had no idea that this was Matthews's regular spot, and I wouldn't want to disrespect his memory in any way." He gestured to me and we moved our drinks to the next open table as the two regulars walked beside us.

"I was wondering, though," Holmes said to the taller of the pair, "if one of you might be able to assist me. You see, Matthews had asked me to meet him here to discuss a matter he considered of some great importance."

The man looked us over suspiciously and appeared disinclined to help. "Well, 'e ain't gonna be discussin' nuffin' wiv yeh now, is 'e? Who the bloody 'ell are yeh, anyway?"

"Oh, my apologies, gentlemen," Holmes said pleasantly, offering his hand, "my name is Sherlock Holmes."

The name of my companion, once pronounced, has a curious way of changing the attitudes of people he is dealing with. Most often people suddenly find the desire to be as forthcoming and helpful as they can, but it periodically also induces some individuals to shut up tight as a clam, and on other instances to react in violent fashion; on more than one occasion we have found ourselves on the wrong end of a blade or a pistol once those three syllables have been uttered.

But on this particular occasion Holmes's calculated gamble had paid off, and after the looks of incredulity had passed from our two acquaintances' faces, and they had finished shaking his hand and congratulating him on his recent success in the Broadnax kidnapping, we suddenly found our new friends most anxious to be of assistance.

"Henry Matthews," Holmes continued on with his story, "merely said that he needed to speak with me about the issue of an arriving ship, and asked me to meet him here today. Might either of you have any notion as to what he might have been referring? He seemed rather troubled about the matter."

It has always been a bit disconcerting for me how quickly and adeptly Sherlock Holmes can immerse himself in a complete fabrication, and not for the first time I felt thankful that we were on the same side of the law. Neither man at our table ever suspected that Holmes had never communicated with their drinking comrade, but they had little in the way to offer in the way of information.

"Don't rightly know, Mr. 'Olmes," the shorter of the two replied. "Ol' 'Enry kept to hisself 'bout most things."

"Oh, that's rather disappointing," Holmes said genuinely. "You wouldn't by any chance know of any other of Mr. Matthews's acquaintances who might be able to help us?"

The two men at our table each seemed at a loss for a good long moment, and then the taller one spoke up again. "Y'know, yeh just might try down at the Oxford Club, Mr. Holmes. "'Enry were a member there, and someone there might know somethin'."

"Henry Matthews was a member of the Oxford Club?" I asked incredulously. Holmes gestured furtively to me that I should keep my disbelief in check.

"As long as we've known 'im," our shorter informant replied, seeming not to be put out by my incredulity of a moment before.

"Well, gentlemen," Holmes said, rising, "it's been a pleasure, but Dr. Watson and I do have a train to catch back to London. Thank you both for your assistance." With that we shook hands with our newest friends in the Rose and Crown and headed for our cab.

It wasn't until we were at least a quarter of the way back to London that I finally decided that I could bear it no more, and I interrupted Holmes's silent musings in the seat across from me to get the answers I so desired.

"Well done, old chap!" Holmes replied wryly once I had asked him to inform me of all that was apparent to him by that point. "You lasted ten minutes longer than I thought you might."

"You mean you've been sitting there just waiting to see how long it would take me to finally ask for an explanation?" I asked, somewhat indignantly.

"No, I admit not, but I did have a little wager with myself as to how long it might take you to pipe up," he said, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it, and then sitting forward in an attentive manner on the edge of his seat. "Tell me what you wish to know, my good doctor, and I shall give you the answers I have."

"Why, everything!" I cried with a laugh. "Fanged earrings, tins of water, clods of grass..."

Not grass, my dear Watson, but _moss_," Holmes said emphatically. "Let us back up to the beginning, shall we?"

"Please let's," I replied.

"What we know is this," Sherlock Holmes began. "At some point in the past Mr. Henry Matthews, if that is his real name, which I am beginning to suspect it is not, by the way, was a sea captain who retired with a sizeable fortune, but from where it came we do not yet know. At some point also in the past, most likely in his travels, he was injured and yet survived an attack by a wild animal of no small size or ferocity. The imprints of its teeth are on his forearm and leg, and for a time the fang of this beast likely hung in his right ear after he killed it. Are you with me so far?"

I nodded.

"Good. Three years ago he bought the estate in Owlsmoor, immediately had a widow's walk build upon it with a concealed access way, and then hired Mrs. Clayton to work for him. Five weeks ago, he became quite agitated at discovering the notice of Admiral Sir Wellesley's birthday party, and set a young waif to work for him, reporting back at least once a week. Mrs. Clayton reports that Matthews became agitiated enough to mention the probable attempt on the flask he called a family heirloom approximately four days prior to his death, which would put us at about a week ago and the last time the young messenger would have reported to him -outside of today, of course."

"So, then clearly this waif brought him news of the thief and the murderer?" I asked.

"Exactly, Watson."

"And what of the tooth and the clump of sod?" I asked again, not at all confident as to how they played into the picture.

"_Moss_, Watson! That is a most important detail, my good fellow. When I was outside the house, observing as you may well have seen, the grand mess that so many Scotland Yard feet made all over the grounds, I did have the good fortune to find the one item that told me just how the intruder had got into Matthews's house. We already know from Mrs. Clayton's statements that all the windows and doors were locked and unmolested...how Lestrade can conclude this was a break-in with no signs of breaking-in is beyond me, although...in fact it is a break in, yet not one that Lestrade would be able to explain. But I digress.

"The house, as you will have noticed, Watson, other than the relatively recent addition of the widow's or captain's walk, as they are called, is quite old, and like so many old houses of its kind, has acquired its share of moss upon its walls, particularly upon the north wall, where the sun strikes the least. When I discovered the clump of moss, I could see that there was no nearby patch upon the ground from where it might have been torn up, and upon gazing up the carpet of moss that covers the majority of the north exterior of the house, I could easily discern a fresh gouge in it, some short distance from the roofline.

"It was as if a foot had dislodged the clump as someone scrambled to gain the roof," Holmes finished, "but clearly they hadn't climbed the wall, for there was but the one blemish upon an otherwise ancient and pristine blanket of old moss growth."

"So you climbed the tree," I conjectured, "to see if it would be possible to jump to the roof from the upper brances and thereby gain access to the platform."

"Good Heavens, no, Watson!" he continued on. "That space I knew to be too far to be covered in a jump when I paced off the distance from the wall of the house to the branches of the tree, but when I managed to climb up even with the roof, I did discover that it would be possible to throw a rope across the rail, and if anchored properly, it might hold a man's weight as he swung from the tree and across to the house."

I could picture it as he described it. "And that would mean that he might come in contact with the side of the house as he rappelled against it, disloging the moss as he pulled himself up and over the edge. The marks on the rail were those from the rope."

"From a grappling hook on the rope," Holmes corrected me, gesturing with two fingers to mimic two prongs of such an instrument. "Once the intruder had gained the roof, it would be a simple thing to pick the lock of the doors to the cupola and let himself down the secret passage."

"Still, it's no simple thing to throw oneself out of a tree and swing to a roof on a rope like that, Holmes. I don't think that even in my younger days I would have cared to try it," I remarked.

"But for someone who is accustomed to ropes and climbing and grapples and such, it would all be a run of the mill procedure!" Holmes continued on excitedly. "And what sort of person do you suppose would be accustomed to such things, my dear fellow?"

"A sailor?" I supplied.

"A sailor!" Holmes confirmed, sitting back in his seat with an air of finality. "I admit that I've been suspecting an old seafaring acquaintence of Matthews since I realized that he'd been at sea, but now everything is pointing in that direction."

"But how on earth do we figure out who the sailor is that killed Matthews, Holmes?" I asked, my head spinning as I thought of all the possible individuals in the port of London.

"I admit we have our work cut out for us, Watson, but what we do know about the man is this: he arrived in town last week, for Matthews's own reaction tells us that, and he came by ship."

"But there are ships from all over arriving in the city for the upcoming celebration!" I exclaimed. "How do we figure out which ship it is that this man arrived on?"

"My thoughts are that we can safely rule out any of the Navy vessels that are here for the jubilee," Holmes replied. "If Matthews was not a military man, then I very much doubt his assailant was."

"But that still leaves a good number of vessels," I commented.

"True, and I hope to narrow down the number with Miss Hastings's help," Holmes replied. "You see, Watson, the other ships that are joining in the celebration are those from the two posts that Admiral Sir Wellesley held while he was serving: India and the West Indies. If Miss Hastings can identify the beast from which that tooth came, it may very well be from one of those two locales. Although not foolproof, it is my theory that the man who shot Matthews will have sailed from the same place as the beast comes from; playing the odds, it is likely that Matthews was attacked in a place he spent some fair amount of time, and also that there it was he most likely made such an enemy."

"So you hope to narrow down the number of ships we have to investigate in this manner?" I asked.

"Yes,"Holmes replied. "I admit that there are holes in the theory, but we haven't time to pursue all avenues, nor all ships. The jubilee is in a few days, and after that all will return to their assigned stations and ports of call. We might then lose any opportunity to catch our murderer."

I couldn't help but point out one of the holes Holmes had referred to. "And what if this creature that attacked Matthews was neither from India nor the West Indies?"

Holmes gave me a subtle smile. "Then I shall have to rely upon my contingency plan, to be set in motion the moment we arrive back at Baker Street."

~~o~~

Young Wiggins thundered down seventeen stairs and out the door onto Baker Street, coins and mission in hand as he flew down the road to meet up with his ragtag band of cohorts.

"It shall be interesting to see who fulfills their assignment first," Holmes said as he watched the gang of urchins through the front windows, "Miss Hastings or those boys. I rather think that my Irregulars will make short work of finding that red-headed lad amongst the docks, don't you?"

"You're most probably right," I agreed, knowing how efficient Holmes's little band of unconventional informants was.

"Still, we must pursue all avenues vigorously, for time is short," he added, disappearing into his room for some few moments. When he reappeared, he had changed his shirt and tie and donned a fine frockcoat, and quickly grabbed up his best hat and stick and headed for the door.

"And just where is it that you are off to now?" I asked, looking him over once.

"I thought it best to investigate the Oxford Club and see if there is anything to be gained from its members," Holmes replied over his shoulder. "I shan't be more than a couple of hours I think, Watson, but if I am, pray don't wait up for me."

With that, I heard the door close and his energetic step following the path down the stairs that Wiggins had taken moments before.

Less than an hour later he returned, clearly amused at something, and I looked up from the book in my lap to see what had him laughing.

"Just what is so amusing?" I asked, watching him fall into the chair opposite mine in helpless mirth.

"Apparently, my dear Watson," he began, once he had composed himself, "there are _two_ Oxford Clubs, and they could not be any more diverse. I should have known what I was getting into, if I had but thought about it when our two friends from the Rose and Crown told us of the location of the one to which they referred. Let me just say that the one to which I nearly went has nothing whatsoever to do with University alumni, and that the manner of patron there, stout seafaring fellows to a one, might have found it just as amusing to beat me to a pulp as look at me, simply because of the way I am dressed."

"Lucky thing for you that you didn't go in," I replied, relieved to hear that no incident had occurred.

"Yes, it was a very lucky thing indeed, Watson," Holmes said, climing to his feet, "for not only is my prominent nose still centered squarely on my face, but I also learned by observation that in order to gain access to the club that you need to have on your person some manner of symbol which allows you entry; a sort of pictoral password, if you will."

Holmes disappeared into his room again for a short while, and when he stepped back out into the sitting room, there was no doubt that with the grizzled sideburns and beard and peacoat that he'd acquired, that he was going to have a much better chance of blending in with the crowd at the less reputable of the Oxford Clubs.

"Having another go at it, are you?" I asked, even though the answer was quite obvious. "You're sure you don't want me to accompany you?"

"No, my dear old friend, password or no, that earnest face of yours would never get past the front door, and I think you shall do me a greater service being here to put me back together should I be mistaken," he said with a light laugh, not inspiring a great deal of confidence in me.

"Mistaken about what?" I asked, starting to become rather concerned about Holmes's safety, and not for the first time.

"That _this_," he said, holding up the piece of notebook paper with his pencil tracing upon it, "is what I need to be admitted. Now, Watson, if you would be so kind?" He held in his other hand a bottle of Kandahar ink.

"What do you propose to do with that?" I asked, beginning to regret asking.

"I need to re-create this device convincingly on my arm," Holmes replied, quite obviously amused at the look that was crossing my face as he rolled up his right sleeve, "and who might have a steadier hand than an experienced surgeon?"

"You want me to tattoo the Jolly Roger on your arm? Are you mad?" I asked, taking the bottle he handed me.

"Just a temporary one, Watson," Holmes replied, setting his arm down on the desk to steady it while I went to sit across from him. "Although I must say that I don't relish being stuck with it for the next several weeks, it will be well worth it if I can gain admittance to the Oxford and obtain any vital information."

I gave him one last look of doubt, but he nodded in reassurance, and seeing he was set upon his course, I picked up the nib, steadied his wrist, and slowly began drawing Matthews's skull and crossed swords across Sherlock Holmes's arm.

~~o~~

**A/N:** The Rose and Crown is a real public house in Sandhurst established in 1742.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thanks to MysticNightAngel and Rosi! :)

Chapter Six

~~o~~

Several hours had gone by, and despite the fact that Holmes had told me once more not to wait up for him, there was little chance of me getting to sleep while I worried about him being off in one of the worst parts of London, purposefully joining the company of some of its roughest inhabitants.

It was sometime just after one when I had had enough and, untying my dressing gown with the thought of putting on clothes and calling for a cab to go out and see what had become of my friend, I suddenly became aware of one pulling up to the front of the house. I hurried to the window to look out and see what I could, but in the dark it was difficult to make out more than the fact that the person heading for our door was of a broader stature than Holmes himself and wearing the uniform of a constable.

Sergeant Wilkins, an amiable, stoic, and helpful fellow, was on the other side of the door when I opened it, and a momentary dread filled my heart at the thought of an officer having been sent to me with a message so very late at night.

"Dr. Watson, sir, good evening to you," Wilkins said cordially as I let him pass and then shut the door. "No doubt you know that I'm here about Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I suspected as much," I replied cautiously.

"Well, pardon my saying so, Doctor, but you needn't have that dreadful look you're wearing," he said with the subtlest smile. "Mr. Holmes is right enough, if that's what you were worried about."

I let out a larger breath of relief than I realised that I'd been holding in. "Good to hear that, Sergeant," I replied, returning the smile. "Just where is the old fellow, anyway?"

"Why, he's in jail, sir," Wilkins replied, doing all he could to obviously suppress his own amusement.

"Jail!" I ejaculated. "What the devil is he doing there?"

"He got arrested for brawling, sir," Wilkins answered, unable to completely hide the grin that was wending its way across his face.

"Brawling!"

"Yes, sir, at the Oxford Club," Wilkins continued.

"Oh, God," I muttered, sitting down and pinching the bridge of my nose. "Please tell me that he didn't start it."

"Oh, no, sir," Wilkins explained happily. "The Oxford's a rough place on a good night, and it's at least once a week that there's a decent fight down there. Mr. Holmes just got unlucky and happened to be there on a particularly disorderly occasion –it was one of them pub-emptying rows tonight. We had to call in better'n a score of men to get it sorted out."

"Is he injured?" I asked.

"Oh, he's all right, Doctor," Wilkins went on. "Climbed in the wagon of his own accord, but I do imagine he'll be a bit sore in the morning. Probably be sporting a shiner too, what after that big bloke hit him."

Wilkins must have seen the look of horror crossing my face and decided to elaborate further. "Not to worry, Dr. Watson, from what I could see as I arrived, Mr. Holmes was doing fine holding his own against a pair of those ruffians, at least until..." Wilkins suddenly broke off, apparently deciding that he should say no more.

"Until _what_?" I demanded.

"Well," Wilkins continued reluctantly, "this large bloke joined the pair and clocked Mr. Holmes good. Three on one's not very sporting odds, if you ask me, but just the same, it was then they got their hands on him and chucked him straight out through the window."

"Out the window!" I cried.

"Yes, sir, glass and all," Wilkins replied. "Fortunately he landed nearly right at my feet as I was trying to get through the door; someone else might not have known him, especially with the disguise."

"And now he's in jail," I added in summary.

"That's right, Dr. Watson. I thought I'd at least come over and tell you so that you might come round and fetch him."

"Thank you, Sergeant, I shall come straight away," I said, completely disgusted with the entire affair by that point.

"Eh, you'd be wasting your time, sir. Inspector Jones is set on keeping him overnight." Wilkins dropped his voice to a lower level. "I think it's for his own amusement, and I can't rightly say Inspector Lestrade won't get a grin at seeing Sherlock Holmes behind bars in the morning, but don't you go saying I said so."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said reassuringly.

"You can come by to collect him in the morning at nine-thirty," Wilkins finished, heading for the door. "Good night, Dr. Watson."

~~o~~

I was up, quickly dressed, and in a cab on my way to Scotland Yard with the intent of getting there early and trying to get Holmes released from jail in time to meet Miss Hastings for our nine-thirty appointment at the police morgue. The jail and the morgue were not far apart, but it was my hope that I might convince Lestrade to allow Holmes out a few moments early in order to give him a chance to make himself presentable before we met with the young naturalist. I could only imagine the state my old friend was in, and I'd made it a point to grab a change of clothes for him on my way out the door.

At nine-fifteen I was out of the cab and headed briskly for the jail entrance, congratulating myself on my early arrival and certain that Lestrade wouldn't begrudge the ten minutes or so for Holmes to change. It was then that I found, to my greatest disappointment, that Holmes had been right about Miss Hastings, and not only was she decidedly punctual, but she was early. She spotted me hurrying along and flagged me down with a genial wave and a smile, ensuring that I saw her and I knew I was trapped.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," she said, catching up with me quickly. She was dressed in a simple but smart blue jacket and skirt with a matching hat adorned with the feathers of a cock-pheasant, and carrying a small leather satchel.

"Good morning, Miss Hastings," I replied, noting her gaze already going to the clothes I had draped over my arm. "You're rather early."

She smiled charmingly at me. "I admit that I am rather anxious to get to see the imprints of the teeth. I'm ever so curious about what this creature is, and the bite marks could make a great deal of...oh. Oh my." Her gaze was firmly rooted on the clothes by that point.

"Should I have brought a change of clothes?" she asked, clearly bothered, and she dropped her voice to a more concerned whisper. "Is the...erm...body going to be that...erm...well, _untidy_?"

"No, no, no, not at all, my dear," I reassured her with a light laugh. "These aren't for me, they're for Holmes."

Miss Hastings had the good manners not to ask why I was carrying about Sherlock Holmes's clothes, but she did raise an eyebrow at my comment before she began looking around. "And just where is the illustrious Mr. Holmes?" she asked pleasantly.

"I'm off to...erm...meet him so that...erm...we can meet you," I explained quite limply.

Miss Hastings's eyebrow climbed toward her feathered hat again. "Wouldn't it be simpler if we all just met up once?"

"Yes, I suppose, but I need to meet him at the jail first and...erm...well," I fumbled, "it's not really the sort of place for a lady, now is it?"

"And the morgue is?" she asked me, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Come, come now, Doctor," she said, tucking her hand under my elbow and heading for the entrance to the jail, "all the criminals are well locked up behind bars and guarded by the brave men of Scotland Yard, so I really shouldn't fret. The sooner we meet up with Mr. Holmes the sooner we can get to work, wouldn't you say?"

I tried valiantly one last time at the door to stall my female companion. "Yes, that's true, but...Inspector Lestrade isn't keen on lots of people bustling in and out of the jail and the police morgue, you see, and..."

"All the better that you can introduce me first," Miss Hastings said, opening the door herself, "so that he can understand that I'm here on an official consulting basis for Mr. Holmes." With that she held the door open for me and I reluctantly followed her inside.

Inspector Lestrade was standing in the hallway conversing with an unfamiliar constable, but when he saw me coming towards him he excused himself from the conversation and walked my way, wearing an insufferable smirk that I wanted to wipe clean off his face. Until he saw my companion, that is. It took him but a second to check that his tie was in place and straighten up smartly once he'd had one glance at the attractive young woman by my side.

"Why, good morning, Dr. Watson," Lestrade said affably. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Good morning, Lestrade," I answered as evenly as I could, for I could still see the remnants of a smirk in his eyes. "May I introduce to you Miss Hastings of the British Museum? Miss Hastings –Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

The two of them exchanged pleasantries and then Lestrade turned to me once more. "I suppose you are here to collect Mr. Holmes?" he asked, quite clearly in an amused way.

"We are," Miss Hastings replied, surprising both the inspector and myself.

Lestrade gave her an appraising look and then shrugged. "Suit yourself. It's not often a lady such as yourself voluntarily enters the jail. Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait here while Dr. Watson and I go..."

"Oh, that's quite alright," Miss Hastings said, placing her hand on Lestrade's arm. "I admit a certain, shall we say, morbid curiosity, and I'm quite confident that I shall be safe enough escorted by one of the Yard's finest."

Lestrade's gaze was firmly fixed upon our engaging female companion, and so thankfully he didn't notice my own tiny smirk at how fast he succumbed to such a blatant and yet successful attempt on Miss Hastings's part to charm him. Clearly she had her reasons for going into the jail and she wasn't going to be deterred.

Inspector Athelney Jones, although infinitely amused the night before at the fact that he'd been able to briefly incarcerate the theorist, Sherlock Holmes, had however, been smart enough to make sure that there was at least one empty cell between him and the riff-raff that shared the jail with him. We were required to walk by two cells on either side of us full of vagrants, drunks and cutpurses, and then another pair of cells containing at least a dozen rough-looking sailors who had also been arrested the night before at the Oxford Club.

With the low caliber of denizen currently residing in the cells of Scotland Yard, it was no great surprise that a cacophony of hoots, whistles and inappropriate comments broke out the moment Miss Hastings set foot through the door. To her credit, although she noticeably tightened the grip she had on Inspector Lestrade's elbow, she otherwise held her head up and gave no indication that she had noticed the slightest indiscretion.

"Here, now!" Lestrade said with a stern look all around. "That'll do!"

The ruckus died down to one or two more vulgarities, and we made our way past the empty cell to the one where Sherlock Holmes had stretched his long frame across the crude wooden bench against the stone wall, lying on his back with the sailor's cap he'd worn the night before pulled over his eyes. The peacoat was rolled up as a makeshift pillow under his head, his arms were folded across his chest, and without moving so much as a muscle, he spoke as we arrived in front of his cell.

"Good morning, Miss Hastings," he said quietly, "and to you too of course, Watson."

Miss Hastings shared a look of surprise with me and then addressed Holmes where he lay.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked. "I haven't spoken a word since I came through that door."

"Nothing could be more obvious, dear lady," Holmes replied, as of yet unmoving. "To the best of my knowledge, none of Scotland Yard's finest make a habit of wearing heeled shoes, at least on duty, and although I admit that I was a bit perplexed at first as to whether the enthusiastic but indelicate reception from my fellow inmates was meant for you or the good inspector, I found that once your perfume reached my cell that it was certainly not Lestrade's preferred scent.

"Hence the deduction that my dear friend Dr. Watson had thoughtfully brought you along so as not to keep you waiting while he saw to rectifying my indisposal, for you must have not only been prompt, but early."

A round of snickering and jeers broke out from the nearest cell of sailors, and any swagger Lestrade might have maintained in his carriage up to that point was certainly gone in an instant; the very same instant that a look of intense displeasure at Holmes's witty yet embarrassing remarks darkened his countenance.

He unlocked the cell almost violently and swung the door wide with a yank.

"Get him out of here before I decide to keep him for a week," Lestrade snarled quietly at me, and then he turned on his heel and marched out of the jail.

"Come on, old chap," I said, "before Lestrade changes his mind and comes back and locks this door again."

"Very well," Holmes replied, somewhat less enthusiastically than I would expect after being detained in prison with the dregs of London society overnight.

He cast the hat from his face cavalierly and drew a deep breath in an attempt to apparently steel himself, and then, very slowly, pulled himself into a sitting position with a soft groan. There he paused, clearly needing another moment before making the attempt to gain his feet. At that point I could see that he was in better condition than I had feared, but still looking the worse for wear. His hair was tousled, his shirt torn halfway down the front and stained with splotches of blood, and while he didn't in fact have a black eye, as Wilkins had speculated he might, he did have a small gash over one eyebrow, and his lower lip on the same side was in the same ragged condition.

"I am sorry, Miss Hastings," Holmes said, as graciously as he could manage, "for my careless indiscretions of last night requiring you to begin your morning this way. My sincerest apologies for my deplorable appearance; I'm sure you and I both find it quite undignified."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hastings replied gently. "I assume you pursue all your cases with such ingenuity and vigor?"

"Quite so," he said with a wince, apparently bracing himself to stand.

"Then there is nothing to forgive, as I know you must have devoted such energy to finding my brother's killer," she said softly. "We should take you away."

Holmes nodded his agreement, and with great effort, began to stand, shaky enough at first that I quickly found myself at his side, gripping his arm to steady him.

"Blasted pirates!" Holmes swore under his breath, glancing at the gang of seafarers two cells away as he finally managed to straighten up.

"Quite right!" I said in solidarity with my injured friend, as I cast a venomous look at the seagoing miscreants in the next cell and walked Holmes out of his. "Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them, I'm sure."

"You misunderstand, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, as Miss Hastings took his other arm and we helped him out of the jail. "I should have insulted them with much more colourful epithets were it not for the presence of the lady, but in actuality, I speak in most literal terms."

"Explain yourself, Holmes, you're not making any sense," I admonished him lightly. "I think the blow to your head must have rattled that formidable brain of yours."

"Quite," Holmes replied with a wan smile, "yet it doesn't change the fact that the Oxford Club, iniquitous den that it is, is home to all those who still, in some form or fashion, consider themselves pirates."

~~o~~

Once I managed to get Holmes cleaned up and into more respectable clothes, I could see that the cut over his eye appeared as if it would heal just fine without stitches, which was well, since there had been a delay of at least a dozen hours by then between when it had occurred and the earliest point that I might have been able to suture it up.

"Wilkins said that you'd been fending well for yourself –against two opponents no less," I commented, while Holmes shrugged himself into his jacket rather stiffly and then proceeded to rake his hair back into place with his fingers.

"You must give credit where credit is due, my dear Watson," he replied, checking one final time that no trace of make up or blood remained on his face. "You know well that I possess no little skill when it comes to the sweet science, and a contest against two men who are well into their cups is not much of a contest of all."

"But apparently it's a different story for _three_ fellows well into their cups," I replied wryly.

"Quite true," Holmes replied evenly, a vague smile tugging at his mouth as he adjusted his tie one final time. "However, despite the fact that I am of no mean height, that fellow bettered me by at least three or maybe four inches, and even without the assistance of his two cohorts, would have tossed me as simply as the delivery boys throw bundles of papers onto the walk near the newstands.

"There," he pronounced once he was done, and he turned to me. "Am I presentable enough for our appointment now?"

"That would depend on whether you mean with Henry Matthews or with Miss Hastings," I replied, doing a poor job of keeping an entirely sober expression.

"Why on earth, Watson, would I care about being presentable for a dead pirate?" Holmes asked offhandedly, placing his hat upon his head.

"Why on earth, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would you, of all people, care about being presentable for Miss Hastings?" I asked him pointedly, and when he found himself hesitating for a moment to find a suitable answer, I flashed him the most innocent smile I could manage and left to join our female companion before Holmes could retort.

Upon entering the police morgue, Miss Hastings – Lydia, to be more exact, had managed to ensconce herself between Holmes and myself, a sign, I deduced, that she was clearly somewhat nervous about examining the deceased remains.

Sherlock Holmes was in the midst of describing just where the injuries she would be examining were located, and knowing him as well as I did, I could feel the underlying excitement in his enthusiastic discourse, likely over the prospect of gaining another step forward in the investigation from what Lydia might discern from her examination. It was therefore that I could tell by the way he distractedly reached for the cloth that he was about to carelessly de-shroud Matthews _in toto_, and I put a staying hand on his wrist, giving him a pointed look that he interpreted correctly within a heartbeat with as well as he knew me: Miss Hastings might not be as prepared for that which we were already accustomed to, and in addition, it might embarrass the lady to have the disrobed cadaver laid bare before her in the presence of two gentlemen.

"Here," Holmes said, leading her around to the far side of the table and withdrawing the drape a fraction to reveal only Matthews's scarred arm. "This is the most promising..."

"Oh, my!" Lydia gasped, and both Holmes and I each instantly grabbed her by an elbow to steady her. "No, no, I'm fine," she said, quickly shrugging us off, putting on her glasses, and gathering up the arm. "Oh, my...oh, my...I need a place to work!"

Quickly she had shrugged out of her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse as Holmes and I grabbed the small nearby table and stool and brought them closer for her. Instantly she opened her valise and extracted a notebook, pencil, measuring tape, magnifying lens and callipers and set herself upon the stool to work.

"Look at this!" she exclaimed, clearly enthused enough about the imprints left by some animal's teeth to ignore the fact that they were displayed along the arm of a dead man. Holmes and I each peered over a shoulder as she pointed. "The imprint of the most rostral maxillary and mandibular arcade are here if you follow the scars –see here...the top of the forearm represents the upper teeth and the inside of the forearm represents the lower. He was bitten like this," she said, imitating jaws with her hand and clamping them around the arm of the dead man, "yet just barely at that."

"Just _barely_?" Holmes asked, and she turned around where she was sitting and glanced up at him.

"Oh, yes. This creature that bit him was of notable size, and if this had been anything more than a nip, he would have lost a hand and part of his arm quite easily. You said there are more scars on his leg?" she asked, peering over the tops of her glasses at him.

Holmes nodded and reached to draw back the shroud from Matthews's lower leg. "I think it quite likely they were made by the same creature during the same encounter. Wouldn't you say?"

Lydia peered closely at the horrid pale marks all along the shin and calf. "Either that or he was attacked by two individuals at the same time, which I deem rather unlikely for him to have surv...oh! Look here! These are nearly a perfect imprint of the dentition!"

Holmes and I shared a look behind her back; clearly neither of us could make sense of the jumble of scars she was examining.

"See? Here, he was bitten like this," she said, mimicking a jaw again with her hand, "with his foot in the beast's mouth. This set of scars here on the outside of his calf amidst all the others are the imprint of the left side of the jaw. I simply cannot believe that this man walked away from this animal!"

She concentrated for a few more moments and then spoke words softly, almost to herself. "_Hard by the lilied Nile I saw, A duskish river-dragon stretched along_."

"River dragon?" I asked, astounded. "You don't mean a crocodile, do you?"

Lydia nodded. "I do. It's the only animal that could have had teeth that large and simultaneously a jaw of that length."

"Was this one from the Nile?" Holmes asked, and even if Miss Hastings didn't perceive it, I could discern the edge to his voice that said he would be quite put out if the beast had the nerve not to be from India or the West Indies.

"It's possible," she replied, "but you must understand, Mr. Holmes, that there are twenty-one known species in the Order of Crocodilia, and while I can instantly rule out more than two thirds just by viewing these bites, I shall have to do more research to narrow down the list of individual species that could have made this particular impression. I do, however, have three or four likely candidates in mind." With that she returned to her work, scrutinizing the size of scars, distances between them and the like.

"Would any of them possibly be from either India or the West Indies?" Holmes asked with subtly suppressed anxiety.

"Why yes, both," Lydia replied offhandedly as she tried to concentrate on her counting and measuring and recording everything in her notebook.

"Is it possible to determine if it was one or the other?" he asked.

With an air of infinite patience, Lydia halted with her callipers in mid-air. "Perhaps."

"Will _you_ be able to determine if it was one or the other, Miss Hastings?" Holmes asked pointedly, and although I knew he meant no insult, his overly direct query might have been misinterpreted by someone less familiar with his personality.

Miss Hastings set her callipers down in a calculatedly determined manner and spun on her stool to face Holmes. "_If_ it is possible to distinguish one particular species from another with the information here, then I certainly am capable of doing so. However," she continued, peering over her glasses at him again with a patient smile and placing an almost affectionate pat on his arm, "it will be quicker for me to answer the question you seek the answer to most if you cease asking me yet others.

"A bit of patience, if you please, my dear Mr. Holmes," she finished with a light laugh.

Holmes offered her a gracious nod of apology. "Pray proceed," he replied affably, and while she went back to work trying to determine what manner of creature she was dealing with, I believe Sherlock Holmes scrutinised Miss Lydia Hastings in the same way.

~~o~~

**A/N:** There are currently 23 known species of crocodile, but in the 1890's only 21 had been discovered.

Lydia quotes a poem called _A Crocodile_ by poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849).


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

~~o~~

Armed with all the data she had collected that morning from the imprints of the crocodile's teeth, Lydia stood with us next to the horse of the cab we had called for her. A lovely breeze had come up while we had been in the mortuary, dispelling some of the heat of the past week, and making it quite pleasant to be outside after being required to spend more time in the grim company of the late Henry Matthews.

"I shall work as quickly as I can, Mr. Holmes," she said, clearly a bit of mischief still in her manner as she implied once more that my companion was impatient.

"Thank you, Miss Hastings," Holmes said, offering her a hand up into the cab, "I shall be by the museum in an hour or more probably two to have your answer."

Lydia laughed when she realized that she couldn't tell whether or not Holmes was serious. "My, you _are_ impatient!"

"Not at all; I simply have the utmost confident in your abilities now that I have witnessed you at work," he replied dryly. Once again it was apparent from the look on our young female friend's face that she couldn't determine just how sincere Sherlock Holmes was being, but she hadn't the chance to say anything else, as the driver whipped up the horse and they were off for the museum.

I spoke as we headed for our own cab. "You can't tell me that you really expect that she'll have the answer in under two hours," I said, perhaps a touch of admonishment in my tone at the thought of him pressuring her in that manner.

"I believe she will _now_," Holmes replied with the slightest spark of his own mischief in the look he shared with me.

"Ah." I understood then how he'd played upon her likely need to prove herself in her father's absence. I could only imagine how frantically she'd be throwing herself into her work, trying to have the answer so as not to disappoint the famous Sherlock Holmes. "Poor girl. You really are quite ruthless at times, you know."

"Success often necessitates a degree of ruthlessness," Holmes replied with a shrug as we climbed in our cab and were off. "To the British Museum, my good man," he said to the driver.

"I thought we weren't going to the museum for another two hours," I said, glancing sideways at my companion.

"I didn't indicate the natural history branch," Holmes replied. "We have other research to do while our friend Miss Hastings identifies the reptile."

"And just what shall we be researching?" I asked, at a loss as to what he was after next.

"Pirates, my good fellow, pirates," Holmes replied, tapping at the unseen insignia he still bore on his forearm.

"_What_?"

"Whoa!" we suddenly heard our driver call, and we drew up at a stop. We both watched as the driver hopped down from his perch and went to examine the horse's feet. "Just as I thought," he said to Holmes as he returned. "She threw a shoe just now –my apologies, sir."

"No matter," Holmes replied, patting the driver on the shoulder amiably. "Tend to your good horse, sir, and we shall see about another cab –ah! Here is one now." He flagged down the nearby driver, and once again we both climbed aboard to attempt our trip across town.

"Afternoon," the cabby said, "and where might two such fine gentlemen as yourselves be off to?"

"The British Museum, if you please," Holmes instructed him.

"Certainly, sir."

Our driver, a tanned, dark-haired, and not overly tall fellow, whipped up the horse and headed off into the street.

"Why would it be that you gents would be off to the museum on a beautiful day like today?" our driver asked. Clearly he was the chatty sort, or the break in the oppressive heat had just left him in a fine mood. "You'd be much better off taking a stroll through the park. I might even go so far as to suggest you'd've been better off inviting your ladyfriend for a picnic there on an afternoon like this."

"How did you know we were with a lady just now?" Holmes asked him. His manner was casually disquisitive, but I'd heard that tone of voice enough by then to recognize a note of suspicion.

"You'll pardon me saying so, sir, but a hundred feet is still a short enough distance for a man to notice a woman like _that_," the driver said with a subtle grin over his shoulder. "It was the lady as caught me eye, not so much you gents –until your cab broke down right in front of me, that is." He shrugged. "You'll excuse me saying so if I would've preferred the fair lady as a fare?"

"Of course." Holmes made a gesture of vague dismissal.

"So, tell me about your lady friend," the driver said over his right shoulder, clearly addressing me once Holmes had lost himself in detached contemplation. "What is she –maid, seamstress, governess?" our cabby asked as we drove along.

"I'll have you know," I said, feeling suddenly the need to defend our female assistant in our current case, "that Miss Hastings is a scientist; she's in research at the natural history museum."

"Ah," the driver said with another small grin over his shoulder. "That explains why you gents are so keen on spending time at the museums. Always thought they were full of stuffy old academic types meself. I'd spend more time there too if I knew they looked like her..."

"I believe Miss Hastings to be the exception and not the rule," Holmes put in tersely, "and we are currently engaged in a form of research ourselves, hence the actual reason for our visit to the museums."

As the next few moments went by our driver kept more to himself, occasionally making a remark again about the weather, the series of overnight assaults reported in the papers that we hadn't heard about yet that day, and the upcoming birthday jubilee for Admiral Sir Wellesley. He made it a point not to say anything further about Miss Hastings, probably, I assumed at the time, so that he wouldn't jeopardize any form of a gratuity he might incur for his services.

Once we had pulled up in front of the British Museum, Holmes bade me stay with the cab until he ascertained whether or not we would be able to gain access to the maritime resources we needed, and he quickly headed off to the entrance.

I sat in the open cab, enjoying the fine air, and the driver spoke up again to pass the time.

"So, research, ay?" he asked casually. "What might you be researching at the museum?"

I stretched out languidly in the seat as I waited. "Apparently pirates," I replied as I basked in the refreshing breeze.

"Pirates!" the driver said with a laugh. "You don't need a museum for that, mate. I could certainly tell you a thing or two about bloody pirates."

"Oh? You're an expert on the subject then, are you?" I laughed.

"I've met my share," the driver said soberly.

"Met your share? You've been to sea, then?" I asked.

"Aye."

"Navy?"

The driver shook his head. "Merchant marine."

"Oh, how interesting. And what did you ship?"

"Oh, this and that –whatever was at hand you might say," he replied. "Made a career of nautical acquisition and redistribution, as it were."

"I see. And where did you sail?" I asked him.

"Anywhere and everywhere," he answered. "All seven seas." At that point he turned in his seat and drew back his right sleeve, exhibiting a tattoo there of some sort, but it was more the bandage wrapped around his wrist that caught my attention, for obvious reasons.

"What did you do there?" I asked, curious about the injury my pleasant new acquaintance had.

"Caught it on me horse's tack this morning –it's just a nasty scratch," he replied. "Bled a fair bit, but it's right enough now."

"I wouldn't mind taking a look at it for you," I said. "I happen to be a medical doctor."

"Oh, I think it's nothing you need to look at," the driver said, rolling his sleeve back down, "but thanks just the same."

"Well, you keep an eye on it; sometimes deep cuts can look innocent enough at first. If that gives you any difficulty in the next day or two, I should be happy to examine it for you."

"Much obliged, sir," the cabby said with a nod and a charming smile. "And who might be the doctor I'd be calling upon if this gives me any trouble?"

"John Watson," I said, sitting forward and offering him my hand, "of 221B Baker Street."

"Jonathan Teague," he replied amiably, shaking my hand. "221B Baker Street, huh? Let's both you and I hope that I don't need to pay you a visit there, ay?"

"Let's," I said in return with a smile, and then I glanced at the museum to see if there was any sign of Holmes. When there wasn't any, Teague struck up the conversation once more.

"So, your friend there," he said, nodding in the direction that Holmes had gone, "a bit tense, isn't he?"

"_Intense_, my good man," I replied informatively, "intense. Once he's on the trail of something he's after, he's quite like a terrier with a bone."

"And what might he be on the trail of?" Teague asked casually, examining his nails.

"A murderer, but that is all that I am at liberty to say," I replied, knowing that Holmes would disapprove of me gossiping over one of his cases before it had met its completion. Heaven knew he had a difficult enough time with me writing about them after they were concluded.

"Odd, I didn't take him for police," said my chatty companion.

"Police! Oh, no, no, my good fellow," I replied, intending to set him staight. "_That_ is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"The bloke what found that kidnapped girl?" Teague asked, appearing impressed.

"Indeed," I said with a measure of pride.

"Broadhurst was it?"

"Broadnax," I corrected him.

"Ah," he said, appearing to lose himself in thought for a moment. "Sherlock Holmes, ay? That's very interesting..."

Teague was quiet for a few moments while we both watched the entrance to the museum for any sign of my companion.

"So, why is it," my friendly driver asked in a casual, half-interested manner, "that the renowned Mr. Holmes is seeking information about pirates?"

"He seems to feel that he encountered some last night," I answered, settling more comfortably in the seat as I continued to wait.

"Here in London?" Teague asked.

"At a pub."

"Ah, that would be the Oxford Club, then," Teague replied with a knowing smile. When he saw the surprised look on my face his grin broadened. "Told you I knew something about pirates."

"You really think there are still pirates left in this day and age?" I asked, becoming disconcerted at the notion that this former seaman was independently corroborating Holmes's theory.

Teague gave a subtle shrug of his shoulders. "Seems to me there always will be, mate," he said with surprising solemnity before trailing off. "There always will be..."

"Watson!"

Holmes was beckoning to me from the stairs, and I gathered myself up and climbed out of the cab, handing over the fare and then some to the driver. He nodded in thanks to me and spoke one last time before I walked away.

"You have yourself a fine day, Doctor Watson," he said affably. "Good luck with your research, but watch out for those pirates...a cunning lot they are, and you just never know when you might encounter one."

"I hope never to do so beyond the two hours of our research, my good man," I said with a light laugh, and Teague appeared infinitely amused at my comment before I turned to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.

The research that Holmes had been intending for us to spend our afternoon engaged in, while I still didn't completely understand the need for it, was facilitated by Dr. Charles Maynard, curator and keeper of the maritime resources of the Britsh Museum, including those that were concerned with piracy. Maynard, a descendant, he informed us as we walked, of Royal Navy Lieutenant Robert Maynard, the man responsible for the ultimate defeat of the pirate Edward Teach, also best known as Blackbeard, was apparently thrilled that the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes had taken an interest in a subject so near and dear to his heart. Holmes remained pleasantly vague about the reasons he had a need to gather more data concerning those who had 'gone on the account', as Maynard had called it, and I confess that I was still only slightly less in the dark about that reason than our host.

Dr. Maynard had given us a distilled discourse on the history of piracy in the British Empire and beyond once he had led us to the research room, and after seeing to it that we were settled into handsome and comfortable leather chairs that surrounded a long table, he went to the vast bookcases and deliberated for a matter of minutes. Apparently making up his mind, he chose a large armload of books and brought them back to us, explaining what each contained.

We soon found ourselves facing a stack containing such titles as _Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the Colonies 1500-1750_; _X Marks the Spot: The Search for Pirate Treasure_; _Raiders and Rebels: The Golden age of Piracy_; and _Pirates of the West Indies_.

Upon seeing the number of books the good curator had enthusiastically gathered for us, Holmes shot me a reassuring look behind his back that indicated that I shouldn't fear about having to rifle through them all, and spoke up to let Maynard know more specifically what he was looking for.

"I'm afraid, Dr. Maynard, that while these all appear to be most interesting volumes," Holmes said, "that our time is rather limited. We have an appointment in quite somewhat less than two hours that we simply cannot be late for with Miss Hastings of the Natural History Museum, and so we must effect our search rather efficiently."

I was impressed enough with my confederate's sincere affect of regret that I wondered momentarily whether or not he truly was distressed over not having enough time to read all the material on the table before him, although I rather doubted it.

Dr. Maynard, a neatly dressed, bespectacled, and tidy little man of perhaps sixty, looked every bit the part of a distinguished museum curator, yet he offered us an impish smile. "I quite understand. I myself should regret being late for an appointment with Miss Hastings, were I to have one."

Holmes smiled indulgently at him.

"What aspect of piracy then, is it that you need to know about, Mr. Holmes?" Maynard asked, poised to be of service in finding whatever we needed.

"I am most interested in famous rivalries in the history of piracy, especially any of those that may have occurred in and around the West Indies and India," Holmes replied.

Maynard looked simply delighted and clapped his hands together. "A fascinating subject, Mr. Holmes, and one that I certainly can help you with!" said he, enthusiastically. Stepping quickly to the bookshelves again, he returned with several carefully selected volumes.

"One of the best known rivalries in Asia," Maynard replied, "was that between the Pirate Lords Sri Sumbhajee Angria, and Sao Feng, rulers of the Indian Ocean and South China Sea respectively. If you know your geography at all, you can see why there would be frequent clashes between the Indian and Chinese pirates." Maynard handed over a book that contained information on piracy in that region.

"Ah, most helpful," Holmes said, pulling the book closer.

"As for the West Indies," Maynard went on, "there were many rivalries since it was such an enormously lucrative location during the golden age of piracy, but two most prominent ones come to mind.

"You simply cannot have any sort of discussion about pirates of the Caribbean, or piracy at all, for that matter, without including Sir Henry Morgan," Maynard continued. "His famous rivalry was with the Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean Sea, Don Alonso del Campo, who was ultimately defeated by Morgan and replaced by him with Eduardo Villanueva, eventually the most notorious of all the Mediterranean Lords."

"Replaced by him?" I asked curiously.

"Yes, rather a brilliant _coups_ employed by Morgan," Dr. Maynard replied. "Although there was no Pirate King at the time of Morgan's reign as Pirate Lord of the Caribbean, the remarkable web of alliances he wove throughout the Brethren Court, as well as with other influential pirates, ensured that he essentially ruled the seas in that capacity in all but name."

"Fascinating!" Holmes commented in earnest.

"Oh, you've no idea," Maynard added gleefully. "All this was accomplished while Morgan lived what essentially amounted to a double life in high Jamaican society –even became the Lieutenant Governor for a period of time."

"That's fantastic!" I cried in disbelief. "Utterly incredible!"

"Yet still true all the same, Dr. Watson," Maynard replied knowledgeably. "Piracy nearly came to an end several decades before it actually declined, simply because of Morgan's death and the loss of any coherence of the nine Pirate Lords. If it weren't for the events of the 1720's, the East India Trading Company would have eradicated piracy in that region altogether quite a bit sooner."

"And just what happened in the 1720's?" I asked, still finding myself somewhat sceptical.

"The Brethren Court actually managed to elect a new Pirate King," Maynard replied, "which was nearly impossible to do; getting the Pirate Lords even to agree to meet again as a group was a feat in itself, but actually getting them to vote for anyone but themselves was quite another.

"You'll find all the information you need on the Brethren Court in here," Maynard said, handing over a volume entitled _The Rule of Nine: History of the Pirate Lords_, "including fairly detailed accounts of not only Sumbhajee, Feng, and Morgan, but of the other two pirates involved in a major West Indies rivalry."

"And they would be?" Holmes asked, accepting the book.

"Barbossa and Sparrow," Dr. Maynard replied, "Pirate Lords of the Caspian and Caribbean Seas respectively, and two of the most fascinating men in the history of piracy. I'm quite sure you'll enjoy reading about them."

With that Maynard supplied me with my own book, and I stared back at the faded but gruesome, grinning skull enbossed upon the leather cover.

~~o~~


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

~~o~~

I was still staring at the cover of the worn volume in my hands when our host spoke again.

"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment, I shall see about fetching us all some tea," he said, excusing himself graciously.

Once the curator had left the room, I pounced upon Holmes for some manner of explanation before Dr. Maynard could return.

"Explain yourself, Holmes," I said. "Just what is this all about, what does it have to do with Matthews, and what the devil am I actually looking for in this book?" I asked, waving _Moste Notorious Pyrates_ at him.

Holmes chuckled briefly at my frustration.

"Calm yourself, my dear fellow," he said, reaching across the table and patting me on the arm. "You already know that we're dealing with mariners, and likely those of dubious reputation at that, but what you weren't privilege to last night, is the fact that before the excitement broke out and I was forced to make my inelegant French exit, I managed to have the most enlightening conversation with one of the Oxford's regular patrons."

"Pray, do share it with me so that I have some notion of just what is going," I said in exasperation, setting the book down.

"I shall begin by telling you that I was somewhat mistaken, Watson," Holmes answered, dropping his voice and keeping an eye on the door to the research room in anticipation of Dr. Maynard's return with tea. "I was quite certain that Matthews must be the owner of the Oxford Club, which I discovered that he indeed was, and that in order to gain admittance one must have his device upon their arm." Here he tapped his right forearm again. "But what I learned from my amiable and forthcoming drinking companion...Barrows I think his name was, is that in order to gain admittance to the club, one must simply have the emblem of any one of the nine Pirate Lords upon their arm."

Holmes paused briefly, waiting for the significance of what he'd said to make its impression on me.

"Actual Pirate Lords?" I asked, frowning in consternation.

"Oh yes, Watson," Holmes said, adopting an amused smirk. "Apparently by you applying this symbol to my arm, you have made me a vassal of sorts to one of the Nine."

"Might I remind you that you _insisted_ that I put that horrid thing there?" I retorted. "And just what do you mean?"

Holmes ignored the evident annoyance gathering in my demeanour and went on.

"Apparently it is a well-known fact amongst pirates that Pirate Lords still exist in this day and age. Any mariner will tell you rumour of such, but most shrug it off to legend or sea lore myth. However, a little gold and a little more rum for my drinking companion Barrows assured me I had proof enough in front of me in that nest of vipers," Holmes replied, flipping open one of the books before him, "although I'll wager heavily in favour of that information being absent from even Maynard's most extensive and quite impressive collection.

"Nine Pirate Lords, Watson, shrouded in secrecy and obscured by anonymity, yet each title has been passed down surreptitiously to a successor or descendant for nearly the last one-hundred and fifty years."

"Surely, Holmes, the Royal Navy would be aware of such a thing if it truly had been occurring?" I protested.

"Yes, and Scotland Yard would be just as aware that the Oxford Club was a meeting place for some of the worst flotsam and jetsam to have ever washed upon English shores," Holmes replied mordantly with a pointed look at me over the book in front of him. He huffed arrogantly. "Such a simple thing it would be for any of them to penetrate the fog surrounding that place; surely it is no denser than any of their number."

He flipped a few more pages in mild agitation as I took up the book before me. "Still," he said more gently, "I suppose that it is rather beyond their jurisdiction."

"But not yours," I replied, earning myself a gracious nod from Holmes when he realised the comment had been meant as an offhand compliment. "So then, tell me what it is that I am looking for in this book," I continued, anxious to be of some assistance as usual.

"Two things," Holmes replied, holding up a pale hand. "One," he said, unfolding a long finger, "the identity of the Pirate Lord to which this mark belongs. And two," he said, another elegant finger joining its neighbour, "information about that person and his greatest rival."

"You really think Matthews was this Pirate Lord we're looking for?" I asked incredulously.

"Quite so, Watson," Holmes replied, flipping to the first chapter in his book about the Lords of the Adriatic Sea; apparently they were in alphabetically order for convenience. "And not," he added, skimming a few pages and then moving onto the Atlantic, "nearly as _retired_ as he would have people believe."

"I'd say he's fairly well retired now," I added in dark humour, earning a look of frank agreement from Sherlock Holmes. "You think the murderer to be his rival?"

Holmes nodded and would have spoken again had Dr. Maynard not returned at that moment with a laden tray in his hands. Before Holmes could adequately protest, tea had been poured, and Maynard had installed himself in the chair next to me.

"I don't normally let my resources out of my sight, Mr. Holmes," he began pleasantly, "but seeing as your time is running short before your appointment, please feel free to take whichever books you like with you."

"I should hate to impose any inconvenience on you, Dr. Maynard," Holmes began to reply, cut off by a lightly dismissive wave of the older man's hand.

"I rather think that I can trust Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, to return a book to the library," he said with wry humour.

"Indeed," Holmes replied with a brief smile. "Thank you. I shall have them back to you by Monday next."

"So how is it that you gentlemen know Miss Hastings?" Maynard asked as he sipped his tea and Holmes poured over the pages in front of him concerning the Pirate Lords of the Black Sea.

I took it upon myself to answer, as Holmes was obviously engrossed in his research. "We've only just made her acquaintance this week, although Holmes investigated the murder of her brother several years back."

Dr. Maynard shook his head. "A bad business, that," he said sadly. "The Hastings family is one of the finest I know. Dr. Hastings has never quite got past that tragedy, and I know that both he and Lydia still feel immensely guilty about being away at the time – Sydney I think it was."

"Victoria," Holmes corrected him absently as he scrutinized the picture of a fierce-looking brigand on the page in front of him. "Returning from research in Tasmania concerning some subspecies of reptile, if memory serves."

"Quite right!" Maynard cried cheerily. "I'd nearly forgotten. The old bean isn't what it used to be anymore, "he said, tapping the side of his head with a finger. "Oh, ask me any name or date in that book, and I shan't make the slightest error, but even now I'm not quite certain just where I set my hat upon arriving this morning." He chuckled at his self-deprecation in a way that I couldn't help but feel was infectious.

"Ah! I remember!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I left it with the morning paper on the chair outside my office. Queer business that, in the paper, I mean."

"We were up and about early this morning, Dr. Maynard," I explained, leaving out the details of just exactly where we had begun our day. "What was it that was in the paper this morning?"

Holmes at that moment spun the book he was examining around to share the picture of Ammand the Corsair with me, and raised a meaningful eyebrow. One glance at the ruffian on the page told me that I was also quite happy not to have lived in the same century as he.

"Why, they've found another constable who'd been assaulted last night," Maynard continued explaining as Holmes reclaimed his book. "That's the third this week. I daresay Scotland Yard will be quick to get to the bottom of this; it won't do much for their reputation to have the police being caught with their trousers down."

Maynard then chuckled so heartily at that moment, that I suddenly realised he was being quite literal.

"You don't mean to say..." I began.

"Oh, quite, Doctor, quite," Maynard replied, trying unsuccessfully to quell his amusement. "It really is no laughing matter, I know, but you must admit that three constables found tied up _au naturel_ is a difficult thing not to crack a smile over."

"Were any of them injured?" I asked, just as Holmes casually tipped the book my way again to reveal the black standard on the first page of the chapter about the Pirate Lords of the Caspian Sea. Its design exactly matched that on his arm, and I realised we had just gained another step forward in our investigation.

"Just their pride," Dr. Maynard replied, bringing my thoughts back to the topic he and I had been discussing. "All three, according to the _Times_, were grabbed from behind, chloroformed, and left in a secluded spot...erm..._leafless_, as one might say.

"At least it has been quite warm," I said. I couldn't help but join Dr. Maynard in a bout of laughter, until, that is, we were both cut short by the look Sherlock Holmes now wore.

"Dr. Maynard," he asked, and I recognised the directness and intensity in his voice that I knew signified he had gathered up another thread of the case, "were the uniforms of the three most unfortunate men found?"

Maynard nodded. "Two of them, yes, according to the paper. The third they haven't found just yet."

Holmes's expression darkened perceptibly as he considered Maynard's answer for a moment, and abruptly he let out a wordless snarl and pounded his fist against the table.

"And they shan't!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "Watson! That book!" he said, jabbing a finger at the one in front of me. "Bring it with you; we _must_ go!" With that, he snatched up the book he had been examining and turned to Dr. Maynard. "Doctor, I thank you," he said hurriedly, "but the point you have just brought to my attention means that Dr. Watson and I now have another urgent stop before we meet with Miss Hastings. I shall, with your leave, retain these two books. Good afternoon!"

Before Maynard could utter a word of reply, Holmes had jammed his book under his arm and swept out the door.

I was already on my feet a second after Holmes had gained his, and I likewise gathered up my book and made for the door.

"But what has he discovered?" Maynard asked me curiously, clearly puzzled by my friend's most sudden departure.

"A link!" Holmes called back from the hallway. "Another link, but the ends do not yet meet!"

I offered Maynard an apologetic smile for leaving him in the dark, thanked him again, and dashed off to try to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes swept by the closest news seller, abruptly leaving one less newspaper and one more coin behind, and quickly hailed a cab. I had barely time to pull the door closed when the cabby had whipped up the horse, heading for Scotland Yard as Holmes had ordered.

"Holmes, what..."

I was cut off by an abrupt gesture from my agitated companion and then had the paper thrust into my hands by him. "Verify the account if you would, my good doctor. You will find, no doubt, that it is the uniform of the third officer chronologically, and not the first two, which has not yet been discovered, and yet found at the scene of the latter assault, but neither the former nor the first, will be a bottle of chloroform, previously belonging to one, Dr. Gray."

I found the article concerned with the three unlucky constables, and confirmed all while Holmes stared unseeingly out the window, obviously vexed.

"It's all here," I said with a sigh as I folded the paper, amazed still despite the number of times I had witnessed such an accurate prediction from Sherlock Holmes. "How did you know?"

"It is absurdly transpicuous," Holmes replied with that occasional maddening supercilious air of his. "It is quite obvious that the first two assaults were a blind, my dear Watson – decoys only."

He then adopted a more thoughtful and slightly reverent attitude.

"It is a deception of perfect balance: outré and insulting enough to Scotland Yard by the third incident that they no doubt have overlooked the significance of the missing third uniform. They assume they will find it soon enough; they found the first two, why not the third? I have no doubt that they lack the capacity to _imagine_ that the point of the whole affair was the theft of a constable's official garb; they will take this quite too personally, and in their indignation overlook the obvious."

"But to what purpose was the theft of a uniform, Holmes?" I asked, still needing at that point to catch up with my companion by several paces.

"My good fellow, where is the single place that one may not go unless he is dressed in the uniform of a constable?" Holmes asked me, adding, "Detectives and criminals aside, of course."

"Scotland Yard," I replied, unable to keep the smirk out of my tone even if I managed to keep it from my face, "where you have so recently been as both of the latter."

Holmes raised one eyebrow for a moment but otherwise ignored my comment. "And _what_, friend Watson, is now currently in residence at the Yard, that our as-of-yet unknown perpetrator evidently wishes to acquire a great deal?"

"The heirloom flask!" I gasped, catching up by several steps. "So you believe that the individuals who killed Henry Matthews, robbed Dr. Gray, and assaulted and stripped the constables are all the same person!"

"That is the naked truth, Watson!" Holmes replied vehemently, lightly pounding a fist on his knee. He paused then, allowing himself a small chortle at the nature of his exclamation in relation to the crimes in question and then went on. "I have no doubt that this is the case. There will be no more attacks on constables; he is done with the chloroform and has discarded it. I suspect that he will don his ill-gotten disguise and attempt to infiltrate Scotland Yard, most likely tonight, when it is occupied to a lesser degree by officials than it is during the day."

"The nerve!" I cried indignantly. "You plan to warn them, then?"

Holmes nodded. "I shall see if Lestrade might not think it better to keep the flask on his person for another day or two, rather than leaving it with the rest of Matthews's belongings, where he has no doubt placed it by now. We should have just enough time to speak with him and make our way to the next museum before our deadline with Miss Hastings."

After that we rattled along in silence, Holmes pondering matters in a cloud of cigarette smoke as I left him to his thoughts and began flipping through _Moste Notorious Pyrates._ I skimmed briefly over Henry Averill and Anne Bonny, amazed that women were included in the illustrious ranks on the pages in my lap, and opened the chapter recounting the life and deeds of the most famous of the Lords of the Caspian Sea, Hector Barbossa.

"I say, Holmes," I interrupted him after reading for some moments, "I think you should see this..." The drawing on the page before me was old and crude, originally meant for a public notice regarding a wanted criminal of the early eighteenth century, but there was no doubt, if one took away the flamboyant plumed hat and cut the hair shorter, that I was looking at a face that closely resembled that of Henry Matthews. Holmes, inclined to keep to his own thoughts for the moment, must have seen the look of astonishment that had crossed my face, and glanced down at the book I had turned in his direction.

"_Halloa_," he said softly, emerging from his reverie to raise an eyebrow at the illustration before him. He scrutinised the old drawing for some minutes, speaking at last as he discarded the remnants of the cigarette he had finished. "Apparently our friend took his role very seriously. Look here," he said, tapping a finger on the page and indicating the scar that Barbossa carried on the same side of his face as Matthews. "Ah! And here is the tooth!

"This matter, Watson!" he uttered softly but excitedly. "This matter has layers upon layers which we have not yet penetrated." He fell back against his seat, fingers pressed together before his lips, silent again for the next two minutes until the cab drew to a stop outside Scotland Yard. "Come, Watson!" he cried, even as he sprang from the cab.

I put down my book and bid the driver to wait, hurrying once more to catch up with Holmes as he came nearly full circle to where he had started his day. To our great relief, Inspector Lestrade was in his office, and Holmes knocked and opened the door all in one gesture, causing Lestrade to frown heavily at the unexpected intrusion.

"Holmes, what..." he began indignantly.

"Where is the flask?" Holmes demanded, cutting him off.

"The what?"

"The flask, Lestrade! Matthews's flask!" Holmes expounded impatiently.

"In the evidence room," Lestrade replied with no little irritation. "Mr. Holmes, what is this all about?"

Sherlock Holmes quickly explained his hypothesis to Lestrade, and while a good number of the Yard's less experienced investigators might have dismissed the connection between the assaulted officers and the death of Henry Matthews, Lestrade had heard more outrageous theories from my friend that had proved to be completely accurate, and he nodded gravely and stood.

"I'll get it now," Lestrade said, already heading for the door with keys in hand. I nodded a greeting at Sergeant Wilkins as we passed him in the hallway, as did Holmes, and if he found any amusement at seeing my companion now on the other side of the jail bars that afternoon, only the subtlest twinkle in his eyes would have said as much.

"We'll set a warm welcome for our friend for tonight," Lestrade said as we hurried along. "He'll find it easy enough to get inside, but not quite so easy to get back out."

"Not _too_ easy," Holmes cautioned him as the three of us walked down the corridor. "We are dealing with a most clever individual, Lestrade, and someone who will become suspicious if walking into the evidence room at Scotland Yard appears too simple a matter."

"Do you really think it will be tonight, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked as we rounded a corner.

"There is no doubt in my mind," Holmes replied. "While I shall not go into details until I have them all in their proper order, I will, however, tell you that it is my sincere belief that this man is working under somewhat of a time constraint."

"And why is that?" Lestrade asked.

"The reason is one of my aforementioned details," Holmes replied dryly, and if Lestrade was inclined to argue, he was accustomed enough to the famous detective's methods to know it was best to say nothing more for the time being.

Sherlock Holmes was poised to speak again, but held his tongue as we passed another constable in the hallway, headed back the way we had just come. "It would be best if only a few people knew..." Holmes broke off and stopped in his tracks, grabbing Lestrade by the arm and drawing him near.

"Quickly, Lestrade!" Holmes whispered urgently to the surprised inspector in his grasp. "Ask that man if he has seen Inspector Lestrade!"

"You want me to wha..." Lestrade began, but once again he caught up with Holmes a step faster than I did, and he turned and called back down the hall. "Constable," he addressed the retreating man, who stopped short at the very end of the corridor and turned.

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you by any chance seen Inspector Lestrade about?" Lestrade asked, while Holmes surreptitiously motioned me to be silent.

"Can't rightly say that I have, sir," the officer replied courteously.

"No matter. Carry on," Lestrade replied casually, but I was able to read just what had occurred in the look that he and Holmes shared at that moment.

"Very good, sir," the constable answered, turning and making his way around the corner. Five seconds later we heard him bolt down the hall.

"We mustn't let him leave the building!" Holmes cried suddenly, sprinting back down the way we had come, followed a heartbeat behind by Lestrade. It was only as I dashed after them that I realised the man we were following was the impostor that Holmes had predicted, and not only had he the nerve to infiltrate Scotland Yard, but he'd done it in broad daylight.

~~o~~


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

~~o~~

I have ever prided myself on being quick to react in a crisis –a skill honed on both the battlefield and in the surgery. It therefore took me little time to round the corner where the fleeing constable, Holmes, and then Lestrade had all disappeared at high speed, but I was just far enough behind that I could witness all that took place over the next twenty seconds.

Sergeant Wilkins, who we had passed but a moment before, was approaching the far end of the hallway, and drew up short as Lestrade barked at him.

"Wilkins! Grab that man!"

Any sigh of relief I might have breathed as Wilkins, a considerably larger man than the dark-haired fugitive, laid his hands on him, was cut short as the wiry individual twisted in his grasp, shrugging out of the uniform jacket he wore and wresting away to sprint toward the doors again, leaving Wilkins with nothing but the uniform in his hands.

Two more constables stepped in front of the escaping fraud, blocking his path to the main entrance twenty feet ahead, and grabbing for him even as he ducked low. The constable on the right was sent sprawling backward as the impostor rammed him head first in the abdomen, and as the second constable managed to get a grip on his arm, the fugitive spun towards him, straightening as he did so and delivering a knee well below the belt of the poor constable, which dropped him to the floor.

The impostor yanked off his helmet as he sprinted for the door, looking like he was going to make it outside, but the intervention of the two fallen constables had slowed him up just enough that as he threw his shoulder against the heavy wooden door, Holmes caught up with him. My companion likely would have had him in custody too, if it weren't for the fact that just as Holmes's long fingers closed upon his arm, the impostor swung his stolen helmet at him, catching him soundly across the jaw and sending him reeling back a pace as the wanted man slipped out the door.

Lestrade arrived a heartbeat later, passing a now-bloodied again Holmes, and threw his compact frame violently against the door, only to rebound off, groaning as he did so, because the escapee had braced the door from the other side in anticipation.

It was then that I became thoroughly convinced that this was not the first occasion upon which the man impersonating a constable had ever been pursued, and I bolted through the doorway an instant after Holmes and Lestrade had recovered and sprang out onto the sidewalk. All of us swung left after spotting the runaway darting out between carts and hansoms in the road, and each of us in turn, Holmes, Lestrade and myself, dodged a number of startled horses and irritated drivers.

Our pursuit took us between buildings and down an alleyway in rapid succession, and we sprinted one after the other along a more residential road, across a small but well manicured lawn, and hopped a white picket garden gate, as had our quarry. For the space of a heartbeat it looked as though we might prevail when the impostor came across a low brick wall across the garden in front of him, but he never slowed as he neared it; he simply dashed for a low stone bench in the garden, using it as a step to continue his momentum up and over the wall.

Being considerably taller than our prey, Holmes hit the low wall and vaulted over, landing nimbly only a few paces behind the fleeing man. Lestrade gained the top of the wall by route of the bench, and dashed a ways along the top, ordering the man to stop and pulling a revolver as I went over in pursuit of Holmes. We might have had a chance of running the impostor to ground at that moment, had the four-wheeler not come along in the same direction and our fugitive sprung to the back of it.

Knowing that we couldn't keep pace with a trotting horse for very long after our already energetic pursuit, Holmes and I dashed after it with a last renewed burst of speed, and might have gained the back of it as well had our wily runaway not already anticipated our actions and climbed atop the carriage. A moment later he'd surprised the driver from behind, elbowing the poor chap from his seat into the road and whipping up the horse to a pace that we could not match on foot.

I pulled up abruptly, panting alongside a winded Sherlock Holmes, who was doubled over with hands upon knees, casting final frustrated glances at his escaped prize between gasps.

"Watson," he managed at last, as a similarly out-of-breath Lestrade caught up, "see to that poor fellow." He nodded once in the direction of the unlucky cab driver, and I hurried to the man's side to examine him, determining that other than a sprained wrist, the man's pride was the most injured part of him. By that time, Wilkins and three more constables had arrived on the scene, and I left my patient in their charge to be taken back to Scotland Yard for a statement as I rejoined my two fellow chasers.

"He has a lot of cheek, that one, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade was saying with obvious irritation.

"To be sure," Holmes replied, looking a bit distant. He then turned abruptly to me. "I'm beginning to suspect that it was less fortuitous circumstance and more thorough planning that accounted for our friendly driver being available when that horse threw a shoe this morning, Watson."

"What makes you say that, Holmes?" I inquired, still too winded to follow his train of thought.

"Did you not see him?" Holmes asked, gesturing down the road where the four-wheeler had long disappeared from view. "Our false constable was none other than our garrulous driver from earlier."

"Jonathan Teague!" I ejaculated.

Sherlock Holmes shot me a look of pleased astonishment. "You know his name?"

"Yes, and his company, Black Cab, number 2705," I added, recalling having casually noted such at the time I had been waiting for Holmes at the British Museum.

"My dear Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, obviously delighted. "You've outdone yourself!"

"I'll look into it right away," Lestrade interjected as we retraced our steps back to the Yard, having written the information I'd just provided down in a pocket notebook. "If he shows his face again at work or at home, we'll have him, don't you doubt that."

"Meanwhile," Holmes replied, after a glance at his pocket watch, "I fear we shall be quite late for our appointment with Miss Hastings." With that he climbed into the cab we'd bade wait, and he took his leave from Lestrade with an agreement for each to share with the other what he had found out on the morrow.

Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes, after dabbing the latest smear of blood from his chin, had sunk back against the seat next to me with his eyes closed, I could tell from his close-knit brows that he was deep in concentration. As it happened, I was glad to have a few moments of unoccupied silence during which to recover myself after our vigorous yet unsuccessful pursuit of Jonathan Teague from the depths of Scotland Yard, and I likewise leaned back against the seat in exhaustion.

"_Why_?" Holmes murmured at last, seemingly more to himself than to me.

"Why _what_?" I asked, opening my eyes and glancing sideways at my companion.

Holmes opened his eyes and shot me a brief sideways glance. "_Why_, my dear Watson, did this fellow Teague act with such haste? Why risk infiltrating Scotland Yard during the day, when penetrating the building at night would provide a much higher chance of success? For now he has failed and put the force on full alert."

"You said yourself that you suspected him to be under some manner of time constraint," I replied as I thought out loud. "Perhaps he felt he couldn't wait any later than he did."

Holmes shook his head, still obviously deep in contemplation.

"No," he murmured, "no, that is not the case. This man is much too clever and resourceful to rush into matters that way. True, he has time against him, as all the ships present for the jubilee will leave London once the celebration is over in a few days; to remain behind would make his craft quite conspicuous when the others have gone. But no, his need is not so pressing as that. Another reason caused him to act so boldly. It's almost as if..."

"As if what?" I asked. I admit that I felt a bit apprehensive about what Holmes was getting at.

"We have been followed," Holmes announced suddenly by way of explanation. "This fellow Teague set his sights upon us before this, of that much I am now sure. How else would you explain him showing up just when we needed a cab? I think it questionable whether we have been the hunters or the hunted, Watson, and I much prefer knowing just where I stand in such matters."

Holmes fell into silent contemplation for several more moments, dabbing at the still seeping cut on his chin, a courtesy of Jonathan Teague.

"No," he proclaimed at last, "there is no doubt that we have been the quarry, our hunter put on our scent by Lestrade's visit to us so soon after his investigation of the Matthews estate. Teague has been tracking the two possible places that the flask could have ended up: with Scotland Yard or with us."

"Perhaps Teague had two games in motion at once," I said as I thought over Holmes's remarks thus far. "If he were unsuccessful at infiltrating Scotland Yard, then by keeping track of us, he would know another way of possibly obtaining what he wanted from its lot of evidence."

"Such as?" Holmes asked, beginning to smile.

"Such as kidnapping one of us and requiring the other to fetch the flask from Scotland Yard. It would be particularly easy for you yourself to do."

"My dear Watson!" Holmes cried enthusiastically. "You simply scintillate this afternoon!"

"Thank you, Holmes," I replied, pleased as always when I felt I had been able to add some useful insight into an investigation.

"But why...still _why_ did our shrewd new acquaintance act so rashly?" Holmes asked, more of himself than of me, I had no doubt. "He must have known I had taken up the case and had been to Owlsmoor. Lestrade himself said there had been an odd chap hanging about the vicinity..."

"So, knowing that we were on his scent, however distantly, Teague decided to follow us?" I asked.

"That is one theory perhaps," Holmes replied. "A second theory would be that he was staking out Scotland Yard in the disguise of a cabman this morning –also a brilliant method of escape if he were to obtain the flask, I must say, and chanced upon us leaving with Miss Hastings. Knowing that we were pursuing his trail but that Lestrade apparently so far was not, he decided to keep track of our whereabouts until...

"He knew!" Holmes exclaimed, sitting upright next to me. "He knew somehow that we would be preoccupied long enough for him to make an attempt upon Scotland Yard – _that_ is why he acted when he did! It was luck that we encountered him there at all. Had we lingered any longer in the company of Dr. Maynard, Teague might have very well accomplished his _coups de grace_ and been gone on the change of tide."

The more he talked, the more I experienced a profound sinking feeling, and began to realize that I had a certain confession that I was going to have to make to Sherlock Holmes. It occurred to me then just why Teague had known that we would be preoccupied for a period of time that afternoon –not knowing just who our gregarious cabby had been, I had naively provided him with the very information he needed during our sociable conversation about Miss Hastings, pirates, and his injured hand.

"Holmes," I said tentatively, getting no response from my distracted compatriot. I tried again with more insistence. "I say, _Holmes_."

He waved me off dismissively. "Not now, Watson. I must think!"

"I'm sure I know how it is that Teague knew just when we would be engaged elsewhere," I continued, feeling rather ill.

"You have a theory?" Holmes asked, finally turning to face me.

I nodded and smiled uneasily.

"Well, if you have one, pray, let me hear it," Holmes said impatiently, training his full attention on me.

"It could possibly be...because...erm...I told him," I said in a very small voice.

"You what?" Holmes asked, looking somewhat perplexed.

"_Told_ him," I affirmed, feeling increasingly sheepish. "We spoke in the cab while I waited for you."

Sherlock Holmes's expression sank, as did his voice. "Oh dear."

Clearly by the look he wore, Holmes no longer felt that I scintillated that afternoon.

"Tell me _precisely_ what you said to him," Holmes demanded, looking both irritated and concerned, and I recounted the conversation as quickly and completely as I could.

Holmes had listened to all I had to say, his expression a grave mixture of disappointment and disquiet, and once I had finished telling the details of my earlier conversation with Jonathan Teague, somewhat sheepishly, he shook his head and tutted softly.

"Watson," he said, clearly disgruntled and casting a disapproving look upon me, "you have nearly undone our investigation single-handedly. It is little wonder that Teague felt the time was right to strike; I too would have taken the opportunity handed to me in such a careless fashion."

I winced at the reproach contained in Holmes's voice and sank a little deeper into the seat.

"The only way in which you might have done more damage," he went on, gesturing in agitation with one hand, "is if you had handed him your card to advertise your name and address."

I felt my face flush warm at that moment, and strongly, if not fleetingly, considered flinging myself out the door of the cab. Holmes knew immediately what my crestfallen expression signified, and once more he shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh.

"I only meant to offer an injured man my services," I said after a very long moment of tense silence, managing to summon a small amount of indignation. "He tried to show me a tattoo and I noticed a bandage..."

Holmes glanced at me again, sighed, and then visibly shook off his irritation, gazing upon me more kindly.

"My dear fellow, your kind and trusting nature is both one of your greatest assets," he said, much more gently, "and your worst shortcomings, at least in my line of work.

"Still," he added mildly, "it would take little enough effort on Teague's part to have discovered the same information, as resourceful as he appears to be. Is it not common enough knowledge to the public these days where Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his very dearest friend Dr. Watson reside?"

I could tell by the tiniest hint of amusement in the sideways glance he shot me, and the manner in which he spoke that all was forgiven, and finally allowed myself to smile a little.

"Let us move forward then," he said, dismissing my indiscretion. "Is there anything that you might have discovered about our clever friend in addition to what he has discovered about us?"

I thought long and hard about my encounter in the cab with Teague and at last shook my head. "Very little, I'm afraid. He knew of the Oxford Club, and he said he'd encountered pirates before."

"Obviously," Holmes replied, matter-of-factly.

"He said he'd been a merchant marine."

"Most likely a lie, but did he comment on where he'd sailed?"

I searched my memory more thoroughly. "'Anywhere and everywhere,' was his answer," I replied. "He said he'd been engaged in nautical acquisition and redistribution, and that was about the time he started to show me his tattoo; I got the impression he was rather proud of it."

Holmes pressed his fingers together before his lips and looked thoughtful again for a moment before he spoke. "That is the very same term that Mrs. Clayton said Henry Matthews had used to describe his own career, and I'll wager that if we were to ask Dr. Maynard about it, that he would tell us it is a euphemism for plundering and pillaging.

"What did the tattoo look like, Watson?"

"I must admit that my attention was focused more on the bandage Teague wore," I replied, "but if my memory serves, it was some sort of bird."

"Ah, yes," Holmes replied knowingly. "Anywhere and everywhere – I imagine it was a swallow, the traditional motif chosen by sailors who have voyaged across all seven seas."

"Yes, it could have been one now that I think about it, but how did you know?" I asked, amazed that Holmes could have known, without seeing, what I could barely remember having observed.

Holmes bestowed upon me a brief, indulgent smile. "You may recall, dear fellow, that I have contributed to the literature upon the subject of tattoos. It is because of this that I knew how to convincingly replicate one in a temporary fashion," he added, gesturing with his decorated right arm, "using Kandahar ink."

Holmes picked up the books we had left in the cab during our recent pursuit of Jonathan Teague, and handed me one of them.

"Let us see if I am correct," he said. "I believe you can turn to any chapter in that book concerning this pirate, Sparrow, now that we know our deceased acquaintance, Matthews, is the heir of the Pirate Lord Hector Barbossa; my instincts tell me that particular rivalry may have persisted all these many decades, and that Teague is one of Sparrow's successors."

~~o~~

A/N: Yep, I know Jack's tattoo is a sparrow. Holmes will too by next chapter. :)


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten 

~~o~~

As the cab made its way toward our rendezvous with Lydia Hastings at the natural history museum, Sherlock Holmes and I each opened a book to a section devoted to the illustrious pirate known as Jack Sparrow. Holmes admitted that he had been mistaken about the swallow once we each found pictures to accompany the narrative in our respective books.

"Ah, the sparrow," Holmes said, peering closely at the drawing on the page before him. "Yes, rather obvious now that I think upon it; if memory serves, the sparrow became fashionable as a mark of those who sailed all seven seas after the pirate with the same namesake made it his own first...Watson!" Holmes broke off and wore what must have been the same disconcerted expression that I met him with after gazing at the pictures in my own volume.

"Do you see?" he asked excitedly, tapping the page energetically with a long finger.

I found that I couldn't help but have seen: the man in the drawings and paintings, if one were to cut the hair shorter and remove the many trinkets that had adorned it, couldn't have been a better likeness of Jonathan Teague than if he were standing before us.

"My word, Holmes!" I cried. "This man certainly must be a direct descendant. The resemblance is uncanny!"

Holmes frowned heavily for a long contemplative moment and then asked me softly, "Which hand did you say his bandage was on, the right?"

I nodded dumbly for a brief moment, still transfixed by the likeness some eighteenth century artist had captured. "Yes, just below the tattoo, on his wrist."

Holmes stared, unseeing, into the air before him. "I will wager very heavily, my dear Watson," he said with a recondite air, "that underneath that bandage is no mere laceration."

"You think there is a brand on Teague?" I asked, having seen the mark left by the East India Trading Company on the original pirate.

"As surely as there is a scar on Matthews," Holmes replied gravely. He was silently contemplative for another few moments, and finally I voiced the question that was nagging at me.

"Why is it, Holmes," I asked, "that these men have gone to such great lengths to duplicate the same marks that scarred both of the original pirates? It seems quite barbaric."

"I would confidently venture that any individual who finds himself heir to a Pirate Lordship must prove his worth before assuming the title; trial by fire, in Teague's case most literally. Apparently becoming one of the Nine is no trivial matter, and each successor must prove that he has the courage and the fortitude to stay true to his position in the face of danger. I fear they believe they are not just assuming the roles, but the very identities of their predecessors."

"Still, it is rather disturbing," I replied in a troubled manner, disquieted by the notion that anyone would so mutilate himself for ambition's sake.

Holmes ignored my comment and remained deep in thought as our cab rattled toward the museum. We were nearly there before he broke his ruminative silence.

"The question we must ask ourselves and answer rather quickly, Watson, is what will Teague do now? He has failed to acquire the flask and yet greatly desires to do so. I doubt he will abandon his mission; he was willing to kill a man to possess it."

"Yes but, Holmes, why?" I asked. "What is it about an old dented tin of water that has led to murder to try to obtain it? Certainly it has no real value."

"To us no, but to these men it obviously represents something quite precious," Holmes replied, still absently perusing the chapter of the book in his lap. "Have you any theories as to what might make this flask of water so valuable, Watson?"

I considered long and hard as to what might possibly make the half-pint of sulphurous water worth killing for, and was suddenly struck with a most strabismic thought. "Is it possible it might be some sort of Holy Water?"

Holmes fixed his eyes on me with a thoughtful expression upon his aquiline features momentarily, but at last shook his head. "A fine theory, indeed, my dear fellow, but I daresay it hardly seems the sort of thing that might interest pirates." With that, he went back to his book and his own thoughts, and we rattled the last mile in companionable silence.

"_Halloa_," he said suddenly, under his breath. "Watson, look at this!"

He pointed then to a paragraph near the end of the chapter he'd been examining concerning the pirate Jack Sparrow, and I leaned closer to read the passage he'd indicated.

"'_The last known adventure of Jack Sparrow, after the Battle of the Maelstrom, was his attempt to sail to Florida in order to locate the Fountain of Youth. Nothing more was heard from him after that, and although rumoured sightings continued across the Caribbean for many years to come, none of them have ever been confirmed_,'" I read aloud.

When what I had read sank in, I glanced back up at a grave-looking Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, that's preposterous!" I exclaimed. "Surely you can't believe that the flask at the heart of this matter contains water from the Fountain of Youth?"

"Whether I do or do not is irrelevant, Watson," Holmes answered me soberly. "What matters is whether Teague does; apparently he believes and so did Matthews."

Our cab rolled to a halt at that moment in front of the museum, and carrying the books lent to us by Dr. Maynard, we paid our driver and headed for the entrance. Quickly Holmes made his way once more through the displays of preserved fauna specimens with me struggling to keep up. I am ever amazed at the level of activity he can sustain for days on end while on such a case as we were now investigating. We ran the gauntlet of vacant, staring, skeletal reptiles in the last hall, and found ourselves face to face with the dark wood of the closed and locked door of Dr. Hastings's office.

However, there, pinned to the door and bearing Sherlock Holmes's name, was a folded note, clearly written in a feminine hand. When he took it down and unfolded it, it ran thusly:

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_My sincerest apologies for not being present to meet you, but I have another engagement that I could not be late for at six o'clock. I would, however, have you know that I managed to find the answer to the question you seek in one hour and thirty-seven minutes. I shall bring both the answer and the tooth to you at your Baker Street residence at eight o'clock, and I shall be prompt._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Lydia Hastings_

It was not difficult for me to read between the lines of the short note and perceive our new friend's teasing manner, as well as the implied gentle chastisement for our tardiness. I also did not overlook the fact that she elected not to write her answer in the letter, and had chosen instead to make Holmes wait. Apparently my perspicacious companion didn't either.

Holmes jammed the letter into his pocket when he had finished reading it and snarled wordlessly. "Bah! Could she not even write a one-word answer in her note? Now I must wait until eight!"

I tried not to smile too broadly at Holmes's frustration. "I believe she is implying once again that you should have patience, old chap," I said, earning myself a sharp look from my compatriot.

"Patience!" Holmes growled. "This woman has chosen to torment me for over an hour!"

"She is well within her rights," I replied pleasantly, "after all, you did send her scurrying off to find your answer as fast as she possibly could work, only to fail to show up in a timely fashion to retrieve it. I'd rather think she's feeling under appreciated at the moment."

Holmes scoffed once more at the situation and then did an about-face and strode quickly back through the hall of reptiles with me attempting to keep pace once again.

"Be glad that she apparently likes us," I continued, trying to placate my discontented friend. "Another woman might not have taken to being treated that way with such good humour, and may have told you in a most delicate and feminine fashion just what to do with your blasted answer."

Holmes considered my words and apparently resigned himself to the fact that he would have to wait, like it or not, and that he also owed an apology to our lovely research assistant in the case.

"You've made your point," he said with a sigh, letting his irritation fall away. "What time is it?"

I pulled out my watch and glanced down at it.

"Just after six-thirty."

"Good, then we shall have time to stop at Café Caldesi for dinner before returning to Baker Street."

~~o~~

The bottom of a bottle of claret and two empty plates found Holmes and myself in a better mood, and we decided to walk the short distance to our residence since the breeze that had persisted since midday made it such a lovely evening. It was clear that Holmes had forgiven Miss Hastings for making him wait for confirmation of what he had already conjectured: on the morrow we would be searching ships from the West Indies for our clever opponent, and he appeared cheerfully eager to meet with her again.

At five minutes to eight we were climbing the stairs to our rooms while discussing possible strategy for the next day, including how much we should involve Scotland Yard. It was going to be necessary to employ more manpower than Holmes and myself at some point, and Holmes had promised to inform Lestrade of any new developments.

By the time we had hung up our hats and I was reaching for the door to our sitting room, somewhere in the back of my mind I thought it strange that we hadn't been greeted by Mrs. Hudson on the way up, inquiring as to whether or not we required feeding. I put it down to it being likely that she was already unnecessarily preparing us some cold supper and an affectionate scolding for not keeping her apprised of our plans, but she knew as well as I did that nothing she said made much of an impact on the way Holmes conducted himself once he had thrown himself fervently into a case such as this.

I opened the door and stepped through ahead of Holmes, only to find a most alarming sight to greet us upon entering. There, sitting in Holmes's favourite chair, draped across it as if he owned it, was none other than Jonathan Teague. However, what made the scene alarming was not the mere presence of Teague himself, but the presence of Miss Hastings, who had apparently not only been prompt, but early once again, and now found herself seated and handcuffed in the chair I usually favoured, gagged to keep her from screaming, and with a pistol in Teague's hand pointed casually across at her head.

"Evening, gents," Teague said with a roguish grin, momentarily redirecting the gun in his hand our way. Holmes and I each quickly raised our hands in a gesture of peaceful compliance. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson."

"You'll forgive us if we don't express the same sentiment, I'm sure, Jack," Holmes replied somewhat curtly.

"You mean Jonathan," I said as Teague shrugged indifference to Holmes's lack of enthusiasm at the situation.

"He means Jack," our captor replied with an insouciant grin.

"Surely," I said to Holmes, "you can't possibly believe that this man thinks he's really Jack Sparrow."

"Oh, but I do," Holmes said, meeting Lydia's gaze and then returning his attention to the gun pointed our way. "And I believe it's _Captain_, Watson," he added as Sparrow touched two fingers to his forelock in way of a jaunty salute of acknowledgement, "Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Have a seat," Sparrow then said, gesturing at the settee before us with the gun. Needless to say, we each endeavoured at that point to cooperate, and sat ourselves next to one another upon the small sofa.

Sparrow reached into his pocket and tossed another pair of handcuffs he'd saved from his attack on the unlucky constables my way. "If you wouldn't mind?" he asked, gesturing from myself to the arm of the sofa. "I prefer to minimize me risks."

A moment later I was fastened by the wrist as we faced our clever opponent, and a third pair of shackles was produced with which Sparrow indicated Holmes should secure himself to the opposite arm of the settee.

"Are you alright, my dear?" I asked the unfortunate Miss Hastings, while Holmes clicked his pair of handcuffs closed.

She nodded stoically, although I could read the alarmed look in her eyes from where I sat.

"Just what have you done with Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes then demanded, his attention trained on our captor.

"The old woman?" Sparrow asked. "She's right enough. Mad as a bee about being tied up, but she'll be right as rain in no time."

I was relieved to hear, as apparently Holmes was, that no real harm had befallen our dearest housekeeper, although I still felt guilty; the few times she had been placed in harm's way during our adventures was usually by her own choice, and in this matter she'd had none while being assaulted in her own home.

"So now we need to have a little chat," Sparrow commented, keeping his finger on the trigger of the pistol, but letting his hand relax onto the arm of the chair.

"Do you mind?" Holmes asked calmly, gesturing with the pipe he had produced from his pocket.

"Be my guest," Sparrow replied, apparently not caring about tobacco smoke.

"Thank you," Holmes replied, and he leaned my way to have me light the pipe for him as we each only had one free hand at the moment. "Oh, and pray, do remove that gag from Miss Hastings. I'm quite sure she's smart enough not to scream at this point."

"True," Sparrow replied, reaching across and yanking the gag from Lydia's mouth, "and she's smart enough to realize how fast I am with this." He wagged the pistol in his hand lightly.

"Surely you don't really intend to use it," Holmes commented between puffs of smoke. "Gunshots might bring the authorities before you could make your escape."

"In this place?" Jack asked, giving Holmes an indulgent gold-flecked smile and gesturing at the ragged 'V R' punctured in the plaster. "I rather doubt it."

It was Holmes's turn to shrug nonchalantly as he puffed away on his pipe, and then he turned his attention to Miss Hastings. "I believe you planned to tell me that the reptile you were researching was from the West Indies?"

"It was," she replied, casting a wary sideways glance at Sparrow. "It couldn't have been a Nile crocodile because there were fifteen maxillary teeth, and with five pre-maxillary teeth, it then couldn't be _Crocodylus palustris_ from India. It had to be _Crocodylus acutus_ – the American crocodile found in parts of Florida and the Caribbean islands."

"My compliments, Miss Hastings," Holmes replied collectedly, puffing away on his pipe contently as he turned back to Sparrow. "And I believe that you first met Henry Matthews in the West Indies?"

"What, Barbossa?" Sparrow laughed. "Yeah, I met him in the Caribbean all right, the mutinous bastard."

Offended that the pirate would use such language in front of our female companion, I cleared my throat pointedly and glanced her way to send him the message.

"Apologies," Sparrow said to Lydia with a gracious nod when he realized what I was indicating, and she smiled diffidently in acknowledgement. "You must have researched the fanged beastie that had a taste of old Hector."

Lydia nodded, looking unsure as to whether or not she really wanted to be speaking with such a person as Jack Sparrow, but realising she'd best stay polite.

"Apparently," Sparrow added pleasantly, "my dear colleague had the last laugh -killed and ate the creature what was unfortunate enough to not have finished him off in one go."

"Remarkable," Holmes interjected. "You met him after this occurrence?"

"Aye."

"And you've known him for quite some time?"

"You might say that," Sparrow replied.

"Apparently there was some incident that caused a fair amount of friction between yourself and Matth...Barbossa."

"You might say that too," was Sparrow's solemn reply.

Holmes exhaled a small cloud of smoke and went on. "Most recently, after he'd been laying low for some time, you discovered his whereabouts in Owlsmoor."

"Aye."

"You broke into the house, surprised Barbossa, and when he wouldn't turn over the flask to you, you shot him point blank in the face, right in front of the fireplace."

Sparrow nodded.

"You would have looked for the flask had you not been interrupted by the servants in the house, after the gunshot awoke them, yet rather than confront an unknown number of persons, you elected to leave the premises and return at a later time to search the house at your leisure," Holmes continued, gesturing at Sparrow with his pipe for a moment.

Sparrow frowned a little, unsettled by Holmes's accuracy. "That's right."

"You hadn't, however," Holmes then said, "planned on the housekeeper's statement to the police informing them that Barbossa was aware that an attempt would be made to steal said flask, and you lost your chance to search for it once Scotland Yard confiscated it as evidence. You then decided to track Inspector Lestrade, following him to this very residence several nights ago."

"It's like you were bloody there," Sparrow replied, clearly impressed.

Holmes gave our captor a glimpse of a smile and pressed onward. "Indulge me upon another point, if you would..."

Sparrow frowned again and glanced briefly at the gun in his palm; clearly he recognised the fact that despite the loaded weapon in his hand, he was loosing control of the conversation, if not the situation. I admit he would not be the first adversary of ours to find himself in such a predicament when confronted by my clever and charismatic friend.

"You gained access to the house by way of the roof..."

"Yes...erm..."

"By way of the tree on the north side..."

"Aye, but..."

"A grappling hook to the rail..."

Sparrow opened his mouth to say something else, but Holmes interrupted him, anxious to prove his theory.

"Yet you slipped while making your way to the top, once, dislodging a small fragment of moss, which fell to the ground as you went over the rail!"

Sparrow turned and gave me a somewhat incredulous look. "Is he always like this?" he asked, frustrated.

I have to admit I shrugged, a little sheepishly, and then nodded.

Sparrow sat back heavily in his chair and gestured cavalierly at Holmes with the gun in his hand. "You need to find yourself a girl, mate," he declared.

Holmes looked displeased for a moment and then shrugged it off as he exhaled more pipe smoke. "A sentiment the good doctor has oft expressed in various manners over the years," he sighed, offering me a brief accusatory glance.

"As fascinating as that may be," Sparrow said snidely, "might we be getting back to the business at hand?"

"Ah, certainly," Holmes replied, apparently in agreement with our captor. "I presume by 'business at hand' you refer to the fact that you propose to keep Miss Hastings and Dr. Watson hostage here while I retrieve the flask for you from Scotland Yard?"

"No, mate. I refer to the fact," Sparrow replied smugly, "that I shall be keeping the lovely Miss Hastings and _you_ here, while the good doctor goes and fetches the flask for me. I already said I prefer to minimize me risks, and setting you free in the outside world before I have what I want seems like a bad idea any way you slice it. You may take that as a compliment if you like."

"I shall," Holmes replied graciously.

"Well then, we have an accord," Sparrow added with a saucy grin, and he reached back into a pocket and then tossed me the key to the cuffs that shackled me to the settee. "No sense in wasting any time, Doctor. You have exactly one hour to return with the aforementioned flask."

"Or what?" I was bold enough to ask as I stood up and rubbed my now-free wrist.

The feral smile Sparrow offered me after a suggestive look at Lydia was all the answer I needed.

~~o~~


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I owe many thanks to Stutley Constable for providing me with the idea for the topic of conversation between Jack and Holmes while awaiting Watson's return at Baker Street! :)

Chapter Eleven 

~~o~~

I'd been hesitant to leave Holmes and Lydia in the hands of Jack Sparrow, but one look at Holmes had produced a reassuring nod from him.

"Go on, Watson," he'd said calmly. "I'm sure Inspector Lestrade will find it all a bit _irregular_, but it shouldn't pose much of an obstacle. We'll await your return, old friend."

I'd donned my hat and descended the stairs, wondering just why Holmes had put such emphasis on the word _irregular_, and then I became aware of the commotion in the street as I stepped through the door: a swarm of young boys tumbling and churning straight for our front door, chatting boisterously among themselves and disrupting the cooling evening on Baker Street. Clearly Holmes had heard them approaching and realized the significance, even though I'd been more focused on the gun in Sparrow's hand. Their youthful leader, Wiggins, spotted me and marched up directly, but I had enough sense to know that we shouldn't linger under the possible gaze of the clever pirate in my flat overhead, and furtively gestured to Wiggins to follow me around the corner.

Once I halted out of view, Wiggins spoke up smartly.

"Found 'im for you, Doctor," he announced proudly, and gestured to the redheaded lad sequestered in the midst of his band, looking rather unhappy about his escort.

"Capital! Mr. Holmes will be quite pleased," I replied, knowing that Holmes must have realised the information the Irregulars had gathered would still possibly allow us to track Jack Sparrow quickly, even if we were to obtain and surrender the flask to him.

"This 'ere's Tanner, the one what was reportin' to that bloke in Owlsmoor," Wiggins added, and the urchin with red hair was ushered forward to the front of the pack. "Tell the doctor what you told us."

The boy looked quite hesitant, but I'd seen Holmes handle this sort of situation enough times to know the secret to doing so, and the clink of the coins I'd started to fetch from my pocket was enough to rivet the attention of the entire group, including the red haired informant. "Henry Matthews had you reporting to him weekly, is that right?" I asked.

The boy nodded.

"About the arrival or lack thereof of a certain ship, I imagine?" I prodded again.

"Yessir," he answered quietly, "'e wanted to know when a full-rigged black ship wiv black sails made port, and 'e gave me train money and some extra each week. I told 'im straightaway once she arrived," Tanner replied in earnest.

"And where was this ship from?" I asked, trying to gather as much information as I could quickly, knowing that I had a time constraint that I was operating under.

"Why, the Caribbean, sir," Tanner answered.

I smiled as I realized that Holmes had been right; this information corroborated his theory, as had the information from Lydia about the reptile. "You said she's black with black sails?"

"Yessir, you can't miss 'er."

"What is the name of this ship, Mr. Tanner?" I asked at last.

"Why, they call 'er the _Black Pearl_, sir," Tanner said, supplying me with the most crucial information.

I smiled, knowing that we would be able to track Sparrow and track him quickly now, regardless if he had the flask in his possession.

I paid the boy and the Irregulars well, and the group of happy lads disappeared whence they'd come, out of the deepening shadows of nightfall in London. Quickly, I hailed a cab and directed the driver to Scotland Yard, hoping that Lestrade would still be on duty; often he spent long hours there when involved with a murder, and such was the case with this one.

The problem was that I had no idea what reason I was going to be able to give him for demanding the flask from his keeping. I hadn't had time to discuss it with Holmes, but my instincts told me that he'd rather I didn't inform Lestrade of the hostage situation, and preferred to handle matters in his own manner. Even as I knocked upon Lestrade's door I wasn't quite certain what I would do, but then when I heard, with relief, him call for me to enter, I knew just what to say. I needed no reason at all; Holmes's peculiar manner of withholding information until he had all the pieces of a puzzle in hand would be in keeping with his character, and a frustrated Lestrade, who was nonetheless eager to solve the case, would likely hand over the flask.

Congratulating myself on having a plan of action, I stepped through into Lestrade's office.

"Evening, Doctor," he said, looking up from the paperwork in front of him and then pressing his palms to his eyes. "Fancy you being back here so late. What can I do for you?"

"Holmes sent me to request the flask," I simply announced.

Lestrade dropped his hands to his desk abruptly. "What? What does he want it for?" he demanded, clearly quite puzzled.

I shrugged, finding it easy to fall into the role of a half-informed assistant. Heaven knew that I'd been in this position enough times in the past to be able to play the part and play it well.

"You don't know what he wants it for?" Lestrade asked tiredly.

"You know Holmes," I said with a light shrug of my shoulders, "always reserving information until he has all the links in his chain."

True, Holmes's queer methods were inordinately effective, but I spoke with just a touch of frustration in my voice intended to evoke sympathy from Lestrade.

"I suppose he'll have some dramatic unveiling of the solution to the case," Lestrade said, slightly bothered.

"No doubt," I agreed, "although I'm quite sure the credit will fall at the feet of the _official_ investigative force, as usual."

That seemed to pacify the good inspector enough, and he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the flask we spoke of.

"Mr. Holmes has been kind enough on a handful of occasions to help us here at Scotland Yard, and even once or twice has bowed out of the spotlight to let a deserving investigator have the credit. I suppose I can return the favour and let him borrow the flask," Lestrade said, his manner somewhat superior.

I elected not to point out that the 'handful' of cases now numbered in the hundreds and that Holmes's name typically appeared in less than ten percent of the newspaper reports; those where it did were usually because the press had gotten wind of his involvement before the matter was quite concluded. Of course, my own published contributions had also made the general public who read them quite aware of just what my companion had contributed to the unravelment of criminal mysteries, making me somewhat unpopular with certain segments of the investigative force at the Yard. Thankfully, Lestrade and I had always gotten on well enough.

"I trust that Mr. Holmes will return this once he's finished with it?" Lestrade asked, placing the now-infamous flask in my hands.

"I'm quite sure of it," I replied, and with that I thanked the inspector and left him to his considerable stack of paperwork.

Upon my return to Baker Street, I was a little surprised to find that although they remained captor and captive, Sparrow and Holmes were in the middle of a cordial and pleasant conversation about, of all things, the Giant Rat of Sumatra.

"No one ever believes me about just how big the bloody things are," Sparrow was saying in a frustrated way from where he was lounging in Holmes's chair with his legs draped over the arm.

"I quite understand," Holmes replied, from where he was still apparently content to sit handcuffed and smoke his pipe. It appeared that Sparrow had been good enough to fetch him the Persian slipper in my absence.

"You'd think I was trying to convince them that I'd roped and ridden a sea turtle when I talk about three foot long rats," Sparrow huffed.

I looked to Miss Hasting, who, quite to my surprise, rather than appearing horrified, chimed in on the subject from a naturalist's point of view.

"They are supposed to be exceedingly rare, and they're hardly ever spotted. What I wouldn't give to actually see one," she said longingly. "They must be fascinating creatures."

"Until they get aboard a sailing ship, love," Sparrow said to her ominously. "Bloody disaster when that happens."

"Figuratively and most literally," Holmes added before he realized that I was standing next to him. "Such was the case with the _Matilda Briggs ..._Ah, Watson! I see you've managed to convince Lestrade to hand over the flask. Well done! However did you manage to persuade him?"

"I simply told him you said you needed it, but wouldn't tell me why yet," I replied, watching the knowing, subtle smile spread across Holmes's face.

"Well done, indeed, Doctor," Sparrow said, sitting upright and pointing the gun my way. "If you please?"

He then held out his hand, and I placed the flask in it and went to sit next to Holmes once more. Sparrow's dark eyes gleamed in triumph, and he caressed the old tin lovingly.

"Quite a chore it's been to get this back," he said absently, and I wasn't certain if he was addressing us or speaking to himself. I thought it to be a measure of each.

With that he removed the cap, and pointing the gun vaguely in my direction to remind me to behave, placed the flask against his lips, and tipped his head back for a generous swallow while Holmes and I each raised an eyebrow at one another.

A half-dozen heartbeats later, I was pointing the gun at a surprised and displeased Captain Jack Sparrow, for once he had taken a large swig of the water in the tin, he'd been so shocked, apparently, at what it contained, that he completely lost his composure, and reflexively spit out what he'd meant to swallow. Having not been re-handcuffed yet again, I'd seen my opportunity and pounced, leaping to my feet and landing a solid right hook across Sparrow's jaw, then snatching the gun from his hand as he reeled back in Holmes's chair from the blow. Ruefully, he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and shot me an aggrieved look.

"I thought we had an accord: you fetch me what I wanted, I let you all go unharmed," he spat at me. "This dishonourable behaviour is beneath you, Doctor."

"And what would a pirate know of honourable behaviour?" I challenged him.

"Quiet, Watson!" Holmes said soberly. "What is it that you expected to be in the flask?" he asked, addressing Sparrow.

"Water," Sparrow replied unhappily, "but not the bloody sulphurous swill you've obviously filled the flask with."

He then tossed me the key to the handcuffs after I'd gestured for it. I leaned over to unlock Holmes's cuffs, but he waved me off and gallantly indicated that I should release Miss Hastings first; after all, she'd been in handcuffs for some time longer.

"Thank you," she breathed, relieved to be free again, and she rubbed at where the handcuffs had mildly chaffed her wrists.

Once Holmes was free, he gained his feet quickly and stretched like a cat, glad to have use of both hands again. Once more he lit fresh tobacco and then began pacing, clearly energized and intrigued by the fact that once Sparrow had obtained it, the flask had not contained what he had expected it to.

"So, Lestrade managed to confiscate the wrong flask, did he?" Holmes mused, and I must say that there was the smallest hint of satisfied amusement in his tone.

"Nah, that's the bloody right flask," Sparrow replied bitterly. "You're saying that Doctor Watson didn't replace the water in it?"

"I did nothing of the sort," I said with some indignation, causing both Sparrow and Holmes to appear lost in deep thought.

"_Bugger_!" Sparrow gasped after a moment or two, having come to some sort of realisation. I have to say that he looked quite disgruntled about whatever conclusion he had just reached, but then he appeared to compose himself, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. A smug grin wound its way across his face.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, suddenly leaping to his feet, grabbing Lydia, and putting a heretofore unseen knife to her throat, "_and_ lady, it's been a lovely visit, but I really must ask that you drop that gun, Dr. Watson."

Of course I complied immediately, not wanting to jeopardise poor Lydia any more than she had already been on our account.

"You must realise that you're only making the case against you more severe," Holmes stated, frozen where he was lest he provoke the pirate into doing something rash. "Surely nothing that might have been in that flask is worth facing the noose."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, mate," Sparrow replied, slowly backing toward Holmes's desk and the windows with Lydia.

"You believe that it contained water from the Fountain of Youth," said Holmes.

Sparrow smiled charmingly. "A smart chap you are, Holmes, but not only do I believe it contained such water, I _know_ it did. Collected it meself with great difficulty one hundred and seventy years ago to the month."

"That's impossible!" I exclaimed.

"_Improbable_," Sparrow corrected me with a knowing air as he took hold of one of the nearest drapes, "but quite possible, I assure you."

"You'll hang for this," Holmes said solemnly.

"If only I had a shilling for every time someone has said that," Sparrow said with a grin.

"Murder is no trifling matter," Holmes admonished him.

"Murder? You need a body, a dead one that is, to have a murder, and seeing that as of...oh, thirty minutes ago, if my estimations are correct, you no longer have a dead body, you now no longer have a murder."

Holmes scowled at the pirate. "Stealing a body only compounds the crime; it doesn't absolve you of it."

"That would be true," Sparrow replied, still amused, "but only if said body were dead, which it isn't, and only if I had stolen it, which I haven't. You'd be better off focusing your time on her body, mate," he added, indicating Miss Hastings with a wolfish grin. "And now, if you don't mind, I must bid you all _adieu_, leaving you to remember this as the day you almost captured Captain Jack Sparrow."

With that he abruptly shoved Lydia away from himself and leapt onto the desk, drapery in hand and knife between his teeth. I dove for the gun I had tossed aside, and Holmes sprang to intercept the falling naturalist. By the time I had retrieved the revolver and Lydia had landed safely in Holmes's arms, Sparrow had taken a firm hold of the material and swung from the desktop, smashing through the glass of the nearest window.

"Good Heavens!" I cried, even as Lydia gasped.

The draperies came crashing down, halting Sparrow's precipitous descent partway to the pavement below as the stout curtain rod wedged itself across the broken window. There he hung for a few seconds, we could see by the light of a nearby lamp post, as the three of us rushed to the opposite window to view what had happened. The curtain material, sturdy stuff of fine quality that Mrs. Hudson had chosen, could still only hold the weight of a person momentarily, and with an abrupt ripping sound, rent itself down the middle. Sparrow rode the tearing fabric to within a few feet of the ground, and then dropped nimbly to his feet on the sidewalk next to the stairs.

"Ta," he called back up smugly at where we had gathered in the window, and with that set off at a brisk trot up Baker Street and around the corner.

Back inside, all was quiet for a moment while we three surveyed the devastated window.

"Perhaps we needn't untie Mrs. Hudson just yet," Holmes said softly, knowing that our landlady truly was going to be fit to be tied once she saw the damage that one of his cases had led to this time.

~~o~~

Mrs. Hudson was unhappy for certain, but perhaps not as much as Inspector Lestrade as he found himself climbing our stairs shortly after the pirate had made his dramatic escape from our Baker Street flat. It was now nearing ten o'clock, and the good inspector was looking both tired and harried by that point.

"What the blazes happened here?" he asked as he we met him on the landing, for he had encountered Mrs. Hudson below, grumbling to herself about dreadful tenants as she swept up all the broken glass on the sidewalk.

"Nothing that I can't explain to you in detail on the way to Owlsmoor," Holmes said, quickly tossing me my hat, then donning his own and hurrying down the stairs Lestrade had just climbed.

"Owlsmoor! Tonight?" Lestrade demanded, looking even less pleased.

"If you want to catch a pirate!" Holmes called back up the stairwell.

"Pirate? What is he on about?" Lestrade asked me.

"We'll explain everything in the cab," I said, clapping a hand to his shoulder just as Lydia brushed past him.

"If we hurry we can still catch the ten thirty-two," she said, hiking her skirts several inches and quickly descending after Holmes.

"Apparently she's going also," Lestrade commented as we hurried down the stairs to where Holmes had hailed a four-wheeler.

"Apparently she is," I said, amused but leaving out the argument with Holmes she'd just previously won over whether or not she was accompanying us on what might prove to be a dangerous adventure. I had also thought it imprudent to let her go, but I was smart enough not to argue with a woman who had just weathered an encounter with Jack Sparrow.

None of us dared say a word to the irritated Mrs. Hudson, but Lestrade spoke up as we all made our escape into the cab.

"Apparently it's the night for broken glass all around," he said soberly.

"Certainly you must mean at the morgue," Holmes offered, as we settled ourselves in, Lestrade next to me and Lydia next to Holmes, where she sat a bit stiffly, clearly still disgruntled about what she perceived as more of a sexist than chivalrous attitude from him about her going where there might be danger.

Lestrade nodded.

"Holmes, how on earth did you know that?" I asked.

"From what Sparrow said," he replied cavalierly. "Clearly some confederate of his must have broken in and stolen the body of Henry Matthews, otherwise known as Hector Barbossa."

"I thought the same thing for a moment," Lestrade said, confirming Holmes's speculation that Barbossa was now missing, "except for two important details."

"And what would those be?" Holmes asked absently, only half paying attention to anything Lestrade was about to propose.

"Just that the one window in the locked morgue had been broken from the _inside_," Lestrade said, suddenly riveting all of our attention to him, "and that outside the window we found footprints of a barefooted man…"

~~o~~

**A/N:** I've finally posted a strictly SH piece posted under the title Fog and Moonshine. Just a bit of fun and random fluff. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

~~o~~

Inspector Lestrade had earned himself three open-mouth stares with his statement in the cab that the morgue had apparently been broken _out of_ rather than _into_, but it was Holmes who recovered from the shock of the preposterous notion first.

"Would that I had time to examine the morgue before the train to Sandhurst!" he lamented. "You examined the room yourself?" he asked Lestrade, who nodded. "And the footprints, they led to and from the broken window, or just to it?"

"They only led away from it," Lestrade replied, sounding none too happy and somewhat puzzled. "I examined those as well."

"And you're quite sure the door was locked?"

"Completely, I opened it myself when Constable Clark informed me of the sound of breaking glass coming from inside. Someone used the chair to smash the window."

"Remarkable!" Holmes breathed, as he sat back from where he'd been sitting on the edge of his seat.

"But what does it mean?" Lydia asked him. "Do you think the pirate's story could be true?"

Lestrade interrupted tersely before Holmes could answer. "What pirate? What story are you talking about?"

Holmes appeared for a moment to mull over just where to begin, and then he spoke. "Lestrade, have you ever heard of the Fountain of Youth?"

"Of course, but what does that have to do with anything?" Lestrade asked.

For the rest of the cab ride Holmes filled Lestrade in about all of our research concerning pirates, alligators, and our encounter with Jack Sparrow. When he was finished relating the story to the inspector, we traded the cab for a car on the ten thirty-two and quickly found ourselves steaming along toward Sandhurst.

"So, you're saying this Sparrow chap believes he and Matthews . . .erm, Barbossa, have been fighting over a flask of water from the Fountain of Youth?" Lestrade asked sceptically. "Surely it can't really exist."

"When I travelled with my father in the Brazils," Lydia said softly, "there were very strong superstitions among the native peoples concerning such a thing. They take the legend very seriously there, as do the older folk among the Spanish and the Portuguese. One elderly gentleman in our research party, who my father had befriended, spoke of the legend around a campfire after dinner one night.

"Of course, I was but a young girl then, and thought it to be a just story for enthralling children," she said, "but what I remember is that he believed the water from the fountain had the power to perpetuate life indefinitely, and even bring the drinker back from the dead, should he suffer a fatal injury."

"Extraordinary," Holmes remarked, looking distant and deep in thought with his fingers pressed together before his lips.

"But surely, Holmes, you can't really believe such superstitious nonsense," I protested, instinctively knowing what he was mulling over. "I examined the body myself, as did you, Lestrade, and Miss Hastings. There is no doubt that man was deader than a doornail and had been for at least two days."

Holmes remained deep in contemplation for another moment and then spoke. "While you were on your errand to fetch the flask from the good inspector, Watson, our friend Captain Sparrow regaled us with tales of his adventures on the high seas, and alluded to the fact that the flask contained something very precious indeed. '_Freedom_,' he'd said, when I questioned him about it," Holmes continued pensively, "_'an eternity of freedom_.' More than that he would not say, but I believe his meaning was clear."

All of us were silent for a moment, caught up in our own thoughts about what we believed, and then Holmes spoke again, once more the logician. "What we believe is of no consequence; it is a question of what these two men believe."

"_Two_ men?" Lestrade asked, perplexed.

"I think we will find, Lestrade, that there will be two men we will encounter once we get to the house in Owlsmoor," Holmes replied. He abruptly held up a hand to ward off my next protest. "I do not yet know how the hoax has been perpetrated, but I have no doubt, if inspector Lestrade has seen all there is to see at the police morgue, that there will be two pirates we must face, each of them intent on gaining what they believe to be the true water from the Fountain."

"But what do you suppose has happened to it?" Lydia asked as the train clacked briskly along.

"Let us entertain the notion for a moment that Sparrow's claims are true," Holmes said, "and this water has the ability to sustain life, even through a fatal injury. Both men would know this, and likely, after a rivalry that approaches two-hundred years, each man has likely done away with the other at least once in the past. Sparrow appeared to know precisely how long it would be before the resurrection took place."

"Part of a hoax between confederates," Lestrade promptly insisted.

"Not at all," Holmes said, refuting the theory. "Barbossa and Sparrow are rivals with a great deal of enmity between them. What purpose would it serve for the two of them to falsify a murder and a theft together, risking that one or both of them might end up in jail or worse?"

Lestrade apparently had no answer.

"No, no, my dear Lestrade, this matter extends to depths which neither you nor I have encountered before, in one manner or another," Holmes replied, then thinking matters over for a moment before continuing. "If I were in Barbossa's place, and had been informed by my young red-haired messenger that the ship he anticipated had finally arrived in London under the guise of one participating in the jubilee, I would take steps to protect the contents of the flask, especially from Jack Sparrow. The blatant fuss he made about the danger to the heirloom flask was a blind, a way to focus the attention of both Sparrow and the police in the wrong place, and very clever if I do say so. Barbossa knew that Sparrow might shoot him in order to gain the flask, but of what consequence is that when one knows that in two days or so one will once again walk upon the earth?"

None of the three of us seemed to have any sort of a reply to Holmes's theory.

"It is my hypothesis that Barbossa switched the contents of the flask and took the risk of being shot, gambling that Sparrow would be preoccupied with obtaining the false item from the police, leaving Barbossa time to return and collect the real article and then escape."

"Holmes!" I cried, suddenly making a connection that I had missed earlier. "The ship! The name of the ship is the _Black Pearl_!"

"Ah, the one true love that Mrs. Clayton the housekeeper happened to mention," Holmes replied with a wan smile. "Clearly Barbossa plans to reclaim his ship as well as retain the prize."

"Well, we'll know where to find him if he doesn't show at the house, then," Lestrade said. "I can wire and have men at the docks to apprehend him if he tries to board the ship."

"And retain him on what charges?" Holmes asked, and I could tell that there was subtle amusement in his voice.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, and then frowned and closed it again, somewhat at a loss as to what to charge the man with, should he be alive.

"Unless he takes the ship," Holmes explained, "then I think that you have nothing more than perhaps hindering a police investigation to bring against him. Even if he does take the ship, I suspect that there is a very long dispute over who is her rightful owner."

"Surely there will be documentation," Lestrade said, looking out the window briefly as did the rest of us while the train began to slow down.

"Falsified," Holmes said dismissively with an abrupt wave of his hand, "as I suspect any documents will be that Jack Sparrow can produce."

"Then who does the ship belong to, if neither of them?" Lydia asked.

"According to the books which Doctor Maynard supplied us with, it belongs to the East India Trading Company," Holmes explained.

"Aha!" Lestrade cried as the train pulled into the station. "We'll arrest them both on charges of stealing a ship."

"But that would be difficult to prove since the East India Trading Company was disbanded nearly twenty years ago," I interjected, "and if we believe the history written in those books, the _Black Pearl_ was stolen nearly two centuries ago."

Lestrade looked very much like he was getting a severe headache. "But this is all impossible," he sputtered.

"So it would seem, but in the absence of any more likely theory, the one that remains, however improbable . . ." Holmes remarked, picking up his hat from his lap and putting it back on.

Lestrade could not refrain from rolling his eyes a little. "I know, I know, 'however improbable, it must be the truth.'"

Any further speculation by our small party was suspended when the train's brakes engaged, bringing us to a stop, and Holmes was on his feet and out of the car in an instant, the three of us scrambling to catch up with him.

~~o~~

Seen from the edge of the woods where the four-wheeler had dropped us, the manor which belonged to the man sometimes known as Henry Matthews appeared deserted, but as it was now approaching midnight, we had no way of knowing if that was actually the case, or if Mrs. Clayton remained in residence and was merely asleep at such a late hour. Surveillance of several minutes awarded us no sign of movement near the boundaries of the grounds, and if any other person stirred nearby, it was well within the confines of the long shadows being cast by the waxing gibbous moon shining through the trees.

"Should we go in?" I whispered at last, glancing across at Holmes's dark silhouette.

"I'm afraid we must if we are to have any hope of getting there first," he replied, nonetheless offering a deferential glance in Lestrade's direction. The inspector appeared unhappy with the entire situation, but nodded in agreement.

"We should circle the perimeter," he said soberly, "and it might be best to split up."

"I completely agree," Holmes replied. "Watson, if you would be so kind as to accompany Lestrade to inspect the grounds outside, I shall ask Miss Hastings to accompany me into the house. In the event that Mrs. Clayton is still here, it might put her more at ease to have another woman in the house with her after already suffering one break-in within the week."

With that, Lestrade and I headed for the south side of the house, while Lydia quickly followed where Holmes led her to the front door.

While I can speak from first hand observation about what Lestrade and I experienced, I have had to rely on what Holmes and Miss Hastings reported to me in the days following our midnight escapade, so that I might fully recount the events of that evening. As usual, Holmes grouses that I have endeavoured overly much to capture the drama of the occasion and spent too much effort romanticising the finale of our case rather than restricting myself to efficiently reporting the proceedings with a more unprejudiced eye.

As I followed Lestrade along the side of the manor and stealthily along the back, I recall how different that beautiful old house appeared in partial moonlight compared to my previous daytime visit. Any shadow might contain a dangerous scoundrel, and although I couldn't quite bring myself to entirely believe it, my subconscious dreaded the possibility that I might come face to face with the scarred visage of a man I had thought to be dead for the past forty-eight hours.

After completing our reconnaissance of two sides of the house, Lestrade held out a hand to stop me in my tracks, pointing to the grey outline of the not too distance stable. Without uttering a word and gesturing only, he conveyed to me that once more we should divide, that he would examine the stable, and that I should continue around the house to complete the perimeter to then catch up with Lydia and Holmes. Grimly I nodded, and then each of us went our separate ways, creeping stealthily with pistols in hand.

~~o~~

The front door of the house, as to be expected at midnight, was locked, and Holmes had found that in his haste to leave Baker Street in order to catch the last train to Sandhurst, he had forgotten the handy little kit of burglary tools he possessed. Stymied for a moment or two while he examined the closest well-fastened windows, he returned to where Lydia waited nervously by the door.

"Should we knock?" Lydia asked.

Holmes shook his head. "We cannot take the chance of alerting Sparrow or Barbossa of our presence if either of them has managed to arrive here ahead of us."

"We could break a window," she suggested in a whisper

"Still too noisy," Holmes whispered back, waving away the suggestion, "and I am not in the habit of unlawfully breaking and entering to facilitate my investigations, Miss Hastings."

Lydia smirked at him. "Apparently just unlawfully entering," she retorted.

Holmes shot her a sharp look and then conceded the point with a shrug. His expression then changed to a more thoughtful one as he looked at her, and then he let out a triumphant whisper.

"Ah, there!" he said, taking a step closer to her and holding out his hand. "Your hatpin if you please."

"My hatpin?" she asked, clearly puzzled by the request.

"And quickly, if you don't mind, Miss Hastings," Holmes answered, still holding out his hand expectantly.

Lydia complied with his request, sliding out the long, sturdy pin that fastened her hat to her hair, and handed it to Sherlock Holmes, who quickly turned back to the front door and dropped to one knee to examine the lock. The next thing Lydia knew, he had inserted the pin and was listening intently as he attempted to loosen the mechanism.

Lydia leaned over his shoulder, watching with fascination as he worked. "Can you really pick a lock with just a hatpin?" she asked softly.

Holmes refrained from answering her for another twenty seconds until a faint _clink_ could be heard from the inner workings of the lock.

"Apparently, yes," he replied, standing and handing her pin back to her.

Lydia took the pin back and regarded Holmes with a look of amused suspicion. "And does Inspector Lestrade know how fast you can pick a lock, Mr. Holmes?"

"I've seen no earthly reason to inform him of such up until now," Holmes replied pointedly, "and it would be the least of my abilities that the good inspector is frequently oblivious to."

"I see," Lydia replied, recognizing the mild dry humour in Holmes's answer.

"I shall enter first," Holmes then said, returning to business at hand, "and pray, stay close behind me and do keep quiet."

"Any other instructions?" Lydia bantered in a whisper, apparently amused at the idea of Sherlock Holmes feeling the need to give her orders.

"As a matter of fact, yes. If I give you any further directions once we are inside the house," he said sternly, "you will need to follow them precisely and immediately."

"Such as?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Such as if I tell you to duck or _run_," he replied, giving her a pointed look that sobered her immediately, and left her with no further questions.

He then turned and opened the door, swinging it inward slowly and peering cautiously into the entranceway. It appeared deserted, and he beckoned Lydia to follow him across the threshold into the foyer. Several long minutes later, after stealthily moving from room to room, they returned to the same location, once inspection of the ground floor revealed no one else present.

Lydia had told me that when Holmes motioned that she should follow him upstairs, that she opted not to put the hatpin back in place, gripping the poor weapon tightly in a feeble gesture to bolster her own courage, lest they encounter anyone above. She followed in Holmes's footsteps along the side of the stair where the shadows were deeper and the boards were less likely to creak than in their centre. Once at the top, Holmes led her on an inspection of the upper floor, finding that the servants' quarters were empty, and that it appeared our party was the first to arrive at the house. He then led her to Matthews's rooms, knowing the way well after having been in them twice during our recent daytime visit.

No sound came from within, and after standing and peering into the dimly moonlit room for several moments, Holmes deemed it safe to enter, and quickly lit a lamp to better examine the room.

~~o~~

By this point in time I was making my way around the north and third side of the house, still encountering no one and noting nothing that seemed out of place. I continued on towards the front of the house, knowing that by now Lestrade must be examining the small stable.

~~o~~

Lestrade had entered the small but well-kept stable, shining a light in one hand as he went, while maintaining a firm grasp on the revolver in the other. Two of the three resident horses draped their heads over the stall doors in mild curiosity, the third ignoring their night time visitor completely. A soft nicker from one caused Lestrade to start, and he cursed the animal under his breath as he began inspecting the stalls, occupied or not, one by one, heading for the end of the row.

Finding that it appear he was alone, the inspector halted outside the final and empty stall, noting a small object on the ground which seemed irrelevant but curious nonetheless. After bending to retrieve it, he recognized, after holding it in the light of his lantern, that he held, of all things, a peanut in the palm of his hand.

~~o~~

On the second floor, Holmes had directed Lydia to begin searching for some sort of bottle or other flask, but neither of them had to look far. There, on the small table to one side of the fireplace, were one of each, the cork of the old rum bottle and the cap of the sliver flask lying next to their respective owners.

Holmes scrutinized the items on the table for a moment and then reached out slowly, gently closing his fingers around Lydias's elbow and pulling her a step closer to himself.

"We are not alone in this house," he breathed in a low whisper near her ear.

"How can you tell?" Lydia asked very softly, clearly concerned at Holmes's pronouncement. "We've seen no sign of anyone."

Holmes indicated the two containers on the table as he spoke. "Someone has been transferring the contents of this bottle into that flask; I believe it to be the hidden water that Sparrow has been seeking."

"But there is no one here. Why did they not take it with them?"

"Because we disturbed them in the act."

Holmes then pointed to the minute evidence that supported his claim: a single drop of water that was still sliding very slowly down the neck of the old glass bottle.

~~o~~


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

~~o~~

I found the front door of the great house unlocked, and wondered if it had been so when Holmes had arrived several minutes earlier, or if unlocking it had been his doing. Not knowing where he was within the house, I decided to make a circuit of the downstairs rooms and then head upstairs to the quarters of the late (or not so late, as the case was appearing to be) owner, where I knew Holmes would be searching to locate a container of water, trying to find it before Barbossa or Sparrow managed to get to it first and then slip away. Stealthily, I crept from room to room, holding firmly onto my old service revolver in the event it was not Holmes that I found first.

~~o~~

Lestrade, as a seasoned veteran of the Scotland Yard force, has accumulated stories of some queer goings- on in his day, but I would daresay that none are so remarkable and singular as those he experienced in the barn that evening.

After examining the peanut he had gathered up, and placing it in his pocket out of habit, several more shells near the door of the last stall caught his eye. Finding them incongruent with the sort of things one expects to find around horses, he entered the moonlit stall out of curiosity, discovering the remains of a handful more. Not being able to mark anything more significant than it being an odd finding in a stable, he decided to conclude his exploration of the barn and return to the house to catch up with the rest of us.

But, upon turning to exit the stall the way he entered, he came face to face with the last thing he probably ever expected to occupy a stable: a creature that appeared to be, in the shadows, a small monkey similar to those favoured by London street musicians to garner attention, wearing a tiny, colourful vest.

Lestrade told me that after jumping a little in surprise at seeing the unexpected creature, he chuckled to himself and spoke in a kindly manner.

"Well, aren't you a little out of place here," he said, crouching down to the monkey's level while it regarded him with dark eyes that shone out of the shadows. "How about a peanut?" he asked it, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the one he'd saved.

At that moment, when it saw what Lestrade held in his hand, the small simian launched itself enthusiastically closer, landing in the moonlight at Lestrade's feet. What the good inspector found himself handing the peanut to was a vision so fantastic and grotesque, that it would be difficult to say who was more startled, Lestrade, or the monkey when the poor inspector screamed.

~~o~~

Holmes and Lydia both watched the drop of water sliding down the neck of the old rum bottle for a few seconds more as the significance of Holmes's pronouncement sank in.

"But who?" Lydia asked in a choked whisper, the chill of apprehension crawling up her spine. "And where did they go?"

Holmes had opened his mouth to speak, but was saved the trouble of answering by the soft creak of a door behind them.

"The secret passage," he groaned belatedly, and gripped Lydia more firmly by the elbow, uttering words that froze her blood.

"Don't move."

"A sound bit of advice," came an unfamiliar voice behind them, and both Holmes and Lydia turned their heads very slowly to look at the speaker.

There behind them, holding the blade that he'd evidently torn from its place of honour over the mantel, was a man that none of us had ever expected to be standing on his own two feet again.

"Henry Matthews," Holmes said quietly, still unmoving, "or should I say Hector Barbossa?"

The man who'd stepped out of the open passageway to the roof looked surprised but not displeased.

"A disadvantage ye have me at, fer certain," he said, his manner somewhat amused as he strode a few paces closer. "Who might I have the pleasure of addressin'?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Barbossa replied with a small, gracious nod of acknowledgement, "tis an honour to make yer acquaintance, Master Holmes. And who might the lady be?"

"This is Miss Lydia Hastings," Holmes answered for her, as Lydia was still too taken aback at seeing Barbossa anywhere but in the morgue to answer.

"A pleasure," Barbossa said to her, a less than appropriate look of appraisal sweeping her form before he then addressed my friend again. "And might I compliment you, Master Holmes, on the choice of company ye keep."

"I'm afraid that I cannot extend to you the same courtesy," Holmes replied grimly.

Barbossa merely laughed at Holmes's words.

"I would, however," Holmes said, "beg another from you."

"And what, mayhap, would that be?" the amused pirate asked.

"Tell me how you did it," Holmes replied calmly.

"Did what?" the older man asked, apparently interested in what Holmes wanted to know, but nonetheless keeping his guard up; he continued to brandish the aged but wicked-looking blade before him.

"Convinced so many people, the coroner and my friend Dr. Watson included, that you were dead," Holmes clarified.

Barbossa's expression darkened perceptibly. "By takin' a calculated risk and a bullet between the eyes," he snarled back, clearly agitated.

"_After_ you transferred the water to the bottle and then made a marked fuss about the other flask you filled with ordinary water, knowing that Sparrow had tracked you to the London area and would likely arrive under cover as a participant in the jubilee flotilla you saw the announcement for five weeks ago."

"Aye, that be true," Barbossa replied. "A lot ye've discovered about me business while I was indisposed, Master Holmes. Certainly yer reputation is a well-deserv'd one."

"As apparently is yours," Lydia finally said tersely, eyeing the weapon.

"True again," Barbossa replied, "and yeh'd best not be fergettin' that, Miss Hastings. Ye'll forgive me if I cut this conversation short, but I'm long overdue aboard me ship. If you would, m'lady, cap that flask and hand it over."

Lydia exchanged a concerned look with Holmes, who nodded in reassurance at her.

"_Follow instructions_," Holmes said to her, giving her a meaningful look that reiterated that he meant his own as well Barbossa's. She nodded, meeting his gaze briefly with a look that he hoped meant she understood, and he watched as she complied and reached out with trembling fingers to pick up the now-full flask. She seemed reluctant to even touch the vessel that held what we had all started to wonder about on some dark level, but managed to snugly fit the cap back in place.

The second the flask was sealed, Holmes cried out, "Run!" and snatched the empty rum bottle off the table, throwing it at Barbossa the same moment he lunged for the bolting Lydia, causing the pirate to have to duck. While the first stroke of his sword missed the fleeing naturalist because of Holmes's intervention, the blade nonetheless whistled through the air in front of her, causing her to veer away from not only the sword, but her bid for freedom out the sitting room door. The pirate regained his balance quickly for someone who had been lying on a cold stone slab for well over two days, and he snatched her by the arm, even as she screamed and tried to jump backwards.

Whether it was intentional or just panicked reflex, Holmes couldn't say, but he watched as a split second later, Lydia drove the hatpin she still held in her hand into that of Barbossa's on her arm, and the pirate roared in pain and let go. Spinning away from him and running for all she was worth, she headed for the one exit available to her at that point, up the stairs to the roof, the angry captain hot on her heels and after the flask still in her possession.

Holmes reacted immediately, unable to await reinforcements from myself or Lestrade, each of whom had a revolver, and he did the only thing he could do at that moment. Snatching another of the swords from Barbossa's collection off the wall, he dashed up the stairs to the roof, following the pirate in pursuit of our lovely assistant.

~~o~~

By the time I had completed my own inspection of the downstairs portion of the large, empty house and found myself contemplating the dark stairway, all hell seemed to break loose around me. For at that very moment there came a woman's scream and a thud somewhere from the floor above me, and then much more obvious commotion. Alarmed for Lydia's safety as well as that of my dear friend, I started quickly up the stairs, only making it to the third one when another cry, obviously of severe alarm, came from outside the house. It sounded like Lestrade and I hesitated, wondering what could have prompted the police inspector to have shouted in such a fashion, when the cry was followed by ungodly shrieking and screeching that I could only place in my nightmares.

Fearing for Lestrade's life, I would have headed back outside, had it not been for the fact that somewhere above me, Lydia screamed again. While I felt guilty about leaving Lestrade to face whatever had made that most dreadful noise, my chivalrous concern for the young naturalist overrode my guilt, and in truth, I feared that something might have happened to Holmes; I bolted up the stairs, gun in hand, rebounding off the wall as I made the turn for the hall that led to Matthews's private rooms.

Even as I flung myself into the sitting room and spied the open passageway to the roof, repeated gunshots echoed distantly from outside; I surmised they were far enough away that they must be from Lestrade's gun. He seemed to have missed whatever manner of man or beast he had encountered, for the ghastly screeching continued unabated, perhaps with even greater intensity and agitation than before. With some difficulty, I swallowed my guilt, and raced into the passageway, taking the stairs two at a time.

When I reached the French doors at the top, I plunged through and rounded the cupola, only to slide to a halt, aghast at what I could see well in the moonshine across the roof. It was easy enough for me to read the outrageous situation that had developed.

Lydia, who had fled with the flask in her possession, had found herself at a dead end at the rail of the widow's walk, cornered by the pirate before she could flee. Apparently Barbossa had demanded the flask from her, menacing her with the wicked-looking blade he held, and threatening to use it in a poised yet clearly ruthless manner. That is until Sherlock Holmes quickly stepped between the seafaring ruffian and the lady, brandishing a sword of his own, clearly intent on defending the young naturalist who had inadvertently become entangled in one of our most bizarre adventures.

Barbossa, seeing that Holmes was intent on thwarting his malignant intimidation of the young woman, seemed amused that the famous detective would dare challenge him, and threw back his head and laughed a wicked and arrogant laugh.

"I thought ye'd be smarter than to cross blades with a pirate," Barbossa sneered, "especially one of the finest swordsmen to ever sail the Caribbean."

"But perhaps not in London," Holmes replied evenly, watching the pirate warily.

By this point I realised that the two opponents had not noticed my presence, and I raised my revolver, waiting for the precise moment when I felt I had a clear shot at Barbossa, without jeopardising Holmes or Lydia.

"I must admit I'm curious to see how ye'd fare, Master Holmes, "Barbossa said with a roguish grin, "unless, of course, the lady would be inclined to hand over the flask?"

"I'm afraid the lady is disinclined, and that you have an appointment in another department at Scotland Yard, " Holmes replied resolutely.

"Very well."

Barbossa sighed, feigning exasperation even as I cocked the trigger, but before Holmes or I could even move, the wily old rogue lunged at my companion in a manner much quicker than I'm sure either of us expected from a man of his age.

Then, instantly, a sharp pain bloomed across the back of my skull, and the last thing I saw was Holmes reacting in the nick of time, ducking and dodging Barbossa's strike as the blade whistled over his head, close enough that it caught his beloved deerstalker and sent it sailing over the railing into the night.

"Apologies, Doctor Watson," Jack Sparrow said regretfully from somewhere next to me, cavalierly tossing away the rock with which he'd hit me even as I crumpled to my knees. I felt him take the revolver from my helpless fingers, and then I slid to the roof in darkness.

When I began to come to, I had no idea how long I'd been out, but later I would estimate that it had fortunately been only a moment or two. My aching head throbbed with my pulse, and somewhere in the distance it seemed as though someone was determined to wake me by banging a pan with a very heavy spoon. As my vision slid back into focus, the first thing I saw was someone standing in front of me, and about the same time that my gaze travelled up to see that Jack Sparrow was standing there, facing away from me, I also recognised that the sound I was hearing was not that of a pan and a spoon, but that of the repeated clash of steel blades from the duel that had erupted on the widow's walk.

I managed to slowly prop myself into a half-sitting position, unnoticed by Sparrow and the two combatants. Mesmerised by what I was seeing as I tried to clear the fog from my head, I watched as Holmes endeavoured to hold his own against a man who I had recently read had lived by his cunning and his immense skill with a sword. By the manner in which he kept Holmes pinned in the corner with Lydia, I was actually beginning to believe that this man had used a sword for longer than just one lifetime. While it was true that Holmes possessed no small amount of skill when it came to the fencing arts, and was an expert singlestick enthusiast, no amount of training in those civilised gentleman's sports could have likely prepared him for an encounter with such a deadly opponent. Holmes appeared calm, but I could tell that all his vast concentration was focused on the duel. Blow after blow he parried, defending himself and Lydia behind him but, despite his best efforts, he could not seem to finagle enough of an opening that Lydia might be able to escape from the tight quarters they were in by the rail.

Meanwhile, Jack had raised my revolver and appeared to be preparing to take a shot at Barbossa, but I didn't care at all for the fact that he didn't seem to be taking into consideration the probable risk to my two friends that were caught up in such a small space with the other pirate at the moment. Surely the way Holmes and the old rogue lunged and riposted as they each sought the advantage might put Holmes at risk of being struck by a bullet.

Determined that Sherlock Holmes would not meet his end by way of my old service revolver, I managed to pull myself closer behind Jack Sparrow, despite the fact that my head was still swarming like a beehive from the blow he'd dealt me, and I grabbed his leg and yanked with all the leverage I could muster. Jack cursed as he lost his balance from my unanticipated attack, and he went down heavily like a sack of oats, hitting the roof hard enough to smack the side of his face and jar the gun free from his hand when his wrist slammed into the tile as well. A single shot blazed off into the night, startling all of us on the roof before the revolver skittered over the edge , and when the two duellists paused for a brief second during their energetic exchange to duck, the clever and observant young naturalist needed no amount of encouragement to decide to make her escape. Lydia managed to just bolt past Barbossa before the pirate could recover from the interruption, and she headed our way, only to charge in the direction of the north side of the roof when she saw Jack trying to climb to his feet in front of her.

Trying to buy her a few seconds, I grabbed Jack by the leg again, earning myself a kick to the shoulder and quite luckily not my face, before he could do more than make it to his hands and knees. Across the way, Holmes had lunged past Barbossa, now gracefully whirling and keeping the pirate pinned in the corner as he'd been a moment before, in an attempt to also let Lydia put some distance between the combatants as the clash of blades and the deadly dance between the two men resumed.

Again Sparrow kicked at me, making contact with my shoulder, causing the pain of my old injury to rear its ugly head enough that I was forced to let go of my grip on his ankle, and he managed to scamper to his feet and bolt across the roof towards Lydia. I dragged myself up off the roof, my head and shoulder both throbbing mercilessly, and trotted quickly, if not a little unevenly after him.

Lydia, having escaped for the moment from one pirate, thanks to Holmes, now saw the second bearing down on her, and she recognised, as I did, that Sparrow would get to her before I managed to close the distance enough to intervene.

"Dr. Watson!" she called out suddenly, and I realised there was less fear in her voice than authority. Glancing at her, I saw her draw back her arm, and instinctively I predicted what she was about to do a second before she heaved the flask she carried in an arc over Sparrow's head and into my waiting hands.

Thinking to possibly draw both pirates off with the one thing they each desired most, I made straight for the exit in the cupola, unfortunately not quite fast enough with the way I felt somewhat muddled still from the blow Sparrow had dealt to my head. It was therefore that the pirate was able to catch up with me before I could get the door leading off the open roof, and he tackled me bodily to the ground.

Holmes meanwhile, still engaged in quite probably the fiercest duel of his life, and continuing to trade blows with the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, apparently had noted my new predicament from the corner of his eye, and I'm sure that it was his concern for my welfare that caused him to lose a minute degree of his concentration. I heard the gasp of pain hiss between his teeth, and as he stepped back quickly away from Barbossa, I managed to see that the pirate's blade had slashed at his arm; blood now ran freely from the area of his left biceps down his arm, dripping off the ends of his long fingers.

A blow from Sparrow to my jaw instantly tore my attention away from Holmes, even as he was forced to parry another blow from Barbossa with a resounding _clang_.

"Payback for the one you delivered to me," Sparrow quipped, referring to the blow I'd dealt him before his escape from 221B, and then trying to wrest the flask in my grasp from me. I daresay I put up a decent enough resistance, and the two of us found ourselves rolling about on the roof, struggling for control of the flask.

Lydia, standing near the north side of the roof and seeing that Sparrow and I were at somewhat of a stalemate, raised her arms over her head to flag my attention, and called to me once again across the moonlit roof. "Dr. Watson!"

Finding myself pinned down by the pirate astride me, I recognised the fact that I could very probably loft the flask back in Lydia's direction, but that it would require me to abandon my defences to do so. Letting go of Sparrow with my left arm with which I struggled to keep him at bay, I hefted the flask towards Lydia with my right, taking another pummelling from the pirate as I did so. Miss Hastings peddled backward, astutely keeping her hands out and her eye on the flask in a manner worthy of any Blackheath fullback, but I am afraid that in my haste to put the flask in her possession, I overcompensated for the height I lacked at the moment since I was flat on my back.

"Bugger!" Sparrow swore softly as he saw I'd managed to rid myself of the prize, and we both watched as Lydia raised up her arms as she hurried backward in vain to catch it; it appeared that it would sail well over her head and into the night beyond.

Almost simultaneous with the swear loosed by Sparrow, came a curse from Holmes, followed instantly by the sound of metal clattering to the roof. Neither Jack nor I could keep ourselves from glancing in the direction of the duellists near the south end; there stood Holmes, sword at his feet and smarting right hand cradled against himself with the left which was already stained with the copious blood running down his arm from his wound.

Barbossa wore a triumphant grin, and levelled the point of his sword at Holmes's throat.

~~o~~

**A/N:** One more chapter to go! :)


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Apologies about the lengthy chapter, but there just wasn't a good place to break the rest of this in two. :) Hope you enjoy.

Thanks again to damsel-in-stress for all her help!

~~o~~

Chapter Fourteen

~~o~~

"Holmes!" I cried in alarm, fighting to get free of Sparrow to do something to help my endangered companion as he stared defiantly at the Pirate Lord.

Suddenly Jack was up and off me, racing across the roof toward Lydia at the north end, and my ears told me why, even as I was shoving myself roughly to my feet to try to get to Barbossa and Holmes. The _clunk_-_clunk-clunk_ of the flask hitting the roof and bouncing across it informed me that Lydia had at least managed to block it from sailing over the edge, but what I discovered an instant later, was that in her haste to back up and save the flask from being lost, once she'd swatted it down, her momentum had carried her backwards and slammed her into the low railing, causing her to flip back over it and nearly plummet over three stories to the ground between the house and the great oak which Holmes had previously climbed.

Two fortuitous occurrences happened at that very instant: Lydia somehow managed to grab hold of the rail to stop her fall, and Barbossa, noting Jack sprinting for the flask across the roof, snarled wordlessly once more at Holmes and abandoned threatening him, racing the same direction as Jack even as Holmes sank slowly down the closest rail, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his left arm with his bruised right hand.

"Get the girl, Watson!" he commanded breathlessly from where he ended, propped up by the widow's walk rail.

Instantly, although I fretted about the extent of Holmes's injury, I whirled about and sprinted toward Lydia.

Being younger and somewhat faster than the other pirate, it appeared, from the corner of my eye, that Sparrow was going to get to the flask before Barbossa, but I paid little attention to the two rogues, as at that moment an ominous creaking, that of wood and not so very different from the protesting timbers of a sailing ship, emanated from the rail to which Lydia was so precariously clinging.

The section she was hanging from was the very section of the north rail which Jack had used to make his midnight ascent to the roof by manner of grapple and rope, and after bearing the weight of the pirate as he climbed up and then later, back down the side of the house, its integrity had been compromised by the stress it was never meant to bear. Even as I ran, I could see the panicked look in Lydia's eyes, as more splintering and cracking noises arose, and the section of wood she was clinging to began to pull away from the rest. Ever so slowly, her slim fingers were sliding off the rail as it tipped, and it began to be a question of whether or not she would lose her grasp first, or simply fall when the rest of the damaged railing pulled apart.

"Hurry, Watson!" I heard Holmes call out behind me, and indeed I did, putting on a burst of speed that would have made my old rugby mates proud. Lydia's fingers had slid more than halfway off the rail when I flung myself forward and grabbed her tightly by each wrist.

"Got you!" I cried triumphantly, even as her fingers slipped completely, and the downward jolt of her weight dragged me against the steadily disintegrating railing.

"Bloody hell!" was the next thing out of my mouth, I am embarrassed to say, since there was a lady present, but I think the circumstances warranted something rather expressive at the moment.

Knowing that I couldn't hold onto Lydia indefinitely, both because the railing was slowly but steadily creaking and giving way, and because my injured shoulder had already been sorely tried in my grapples with Sparrow, I made a hasty decision to attempt something drastic. It was clear that both the young naturalist and I were in grave danger of plunging to the ground, and I knew that I had nothing to lose.

"Trust me!" I called to her, meeting her frightened eyes with what I hoped was a look of confidence. "Hang on!"

I then let go of one of her wrists, tightening my grasp with the other hand as best I could as she swung a little and tightened her own grip of my wrist, crying out in alarm. With my free hand I reached for a section of intact railing, bracing myself and preparing to use it as leverage to pull the distressed young woman back up to the roof.

I quickly found that I lacked the remaining strength to do so with one arm, and as I prepared to try again, Lydia's hand slid down my wrist an inch while she screamed louder this time, clearly petrified of her imminent fall.

I would find out later that Holmes had struggled to his feet and was moving as fast as he could in our direction in a probably futile attempt to lend assistance, losing more blood the whole way, but he at least was able to fill in the gaps of what happened in the next few seconds that night on top of that Owlsmoor roof.

Having all but made it to where the flask had come to rest near the edge of the roof, Sparrow would have likely grabbed the item first and had time to sprint for the stairs down the passageway with a fair head start over Barbossa, but before he could bend to retrieve the object he so sorely desired, Lydia's scream yanked his attention back to our desperate situation, and he paused, clearly torn as to what he should do.

Once more, Holmes tells me, that Jack Sparrow resumed his steps towards the flask, trying to reach it in the next instant before Barbossa, sword still in hand, was upon him, but the second and more dire scream from the terrified naturalist stopped him in his tracks, and he turned, having apparently let go a defeated sigh of some magnitude and swearing once more.

"Bugger it all to hell," he spat, turning and running in my direction.

The next thing I knew, as I was fretting that I was about to watch a beautiful young woman fall to her death and bear the blame for it, a pair of strong, weathered hands grabbed hold of Lydia's wrist, and together, Jack Sparrow and I hauled the woman up and over the edge of the roof.

Holmes, exhausted from his duelling efforts and the continued haemorrhage, sank tiredly to his knees, watching as Lydia was rescued at the hands of one pirate, and the flask disappeared down the stairs with the other.

Lydia, who had maintained a stiff upper lip throughout her adventure since first being kidnapped by Sparrow much earlier in the evening, now began to show the strain her close call had produced. Tears began to roll down her pale cheeks, visible in the moonlight that still poured across the roof.

"Thank you," she gasped, trying to maintain her composure, and then for a brief moment, fell against me and sobbed softly.

"You should probably tend to Mr. Holmes," she said suddenly, pulling back and bravely wiping away her tears.

"And I should probably be going," Sparrow commented quietly, now edging toward the stairway. I admit I struggled with how I felt about just letting him go, but Holmes was my primary concern at the moment, and I knelt by my old friend's side to evaluate his injury.

"Quite the gash you've earned yourself, old man," I said, removing my tie to try to mop up enough blood to see how bad the wound was.

"Quite the embrace you earned yourself, my good doctor," Holmes replied drily, not having missed, evidently, the moment that Miss Hastings had thrown herself into my arms. A loud tearing noise precluded us from commenting further, and the perceptive young woman handed me a long section of cloth torn from the hem of her skirt.

"Will this help for now?" she asked, obviously quite concerned about the amount of blood that had saturated Holmes's left sleeve. I nodded and fashioned a temporary bandage from her offering.

Sparrow, who had been backing toward the door, spoke up one last time. "Nothing a few stitches and a little time won't heal, ay? Then I must be off to…"

"You're not going anywhere," came Lestrade's voice from behind Sparrow, yet it didn't seem to me to carry the full weight of authority that it usually did. I helped Holmes to his feet, and once we had a chance to look towards Lestrade, who pointed a gun at Sparrow, it was obvious that whatever adventure he'd been through down below had been no less trying than what the rest of us had been through on the roof.

Normally particular in his manner of dress, the inspector looked as if he'd been through the ringer, with jacket torn and tie askew, and multiple scratches down one side of his face. His hat was missing, and his hair was in sore need of the attention of a comb.

"You are not going anywhere," he repeated, in a clearly somewhat disconcerted manner, "until you explain to me just what the blazes that _horrible _thing was!"

"Ah, so you've met Jack," Sparrow replied nonchalantly.

"Jack? That beastly thing has a name?" Lestrade demanded, his normally steadfast manner quite unsteady. I admit I'd never seen the determined little detective come quite so unglued.

Sparrow nodded abashedly. "Barbossa's sense of humour leaves something to be desired."

"Might I suggest," Holmes interrupted, "that we all go inside, out of the night air, and discuss matters in a more comfortable environment?"

Not one of us seemed to think it a poor suggestion, and we filed down the stairs to the sitting room and seated ourselves in the plush chairs. Sparrow busied himself in a cabinet for a moment or two, pouring the contents of a bottle into four glasses, and when he suggested that this was as good a time as any for rum, not one of us disagreed or refrained from taking the spirits he'd offered round. The remainder of the bottle he kept, perching himself upon an ottoman and slugging back a gulp all at once, the volume of which, I admit, made me raise an eyebrow.

The rum seemed to do Lestrade's nerves some good, and when he had consumed his measure, he returned his slightly more steady attentions to Sparrow. I expected Lestrade's typical interrogation, but it was not forthcoming.

"I shot that _thing_ four or five times," he said, leaving the rest of us oblivious as to what he spoke of as he looked pointedly at the pirate. "I know I hit it –_at least_ three times."

"Frustratingly ineffective, and yet somehow strangely satisfying," Jack commented back. "Happens that way with undead monkeys." Sparrow made the pronouncement as if it were the sort of thing one told other people every day.

"Undead monkeys?" we all chorused together.

"Yep. Barbossa's pet."

"This animal achieved immortality by drinking from the Fountain?" Holmes asked, contemplating the rum he was swirling about in his glass.

"Nah, from a cursed Aztec gold coin," Sparrow replied, downing another large gulp of rum.

Holmes raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Jack.

"Long story, mate," Sparrow replied with a shrug.

"I see," Holmes replied, still watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass. "I suppose it shall have to wait, for we have a decision of no little consequence which we all must discuss."

"Such as?" Lestrade asked pointedly, starting to regain himself.

"Such as, my good Lestrade," Holmes replied calmly, "the matter of what to do with this fellow here – Mister, ah, forgive me, _Captain_ Sparrow."

Jack saluted Holmes with the bottle he held before downing another impressive draught.

"Captain or no," Lestrade grumbled, "this man is headed for the dock, and I don't mean at the waterfront."

Holmes allowed himself a wan smile and then a sip of rum. "Just what charges do you intend to press against this man?" he enquired. "And before you answer, Lestrade, let me assure you that Hector Barbossa is quite alive, so I think we must discard any charge of murder." Holmes glanced ruefully at the makeshift bandage on his arm for a brief moment, and then looked at Lestrade expectantly.

"Well, there's still breaking and entering, robbery, impersonating a constable, three counts of assault upon officers of the law, evading arrest, stealing a cab, vandalism of private property, and three incidents of kidnapping," Lestrade rattled off. "And he assaulted you, if I recall correctly," Lestrade added, indicating the small healing cut on Holmes's chin.

Sparrow now looked decidedly uncomfortable, and polished off the remains of the bottle in his hand in one go.

For some reason, at that particular moment, I elected not to inform the good inspector that I too had been assaulted by the pirate; knocked out cold for a moment or two when he'd struck me upon the head with a rock. Somehow it mattered less now, and the reason was sitting directly across from me, looking unsettled and intensely thoughtful. I found it intriguing that she had begun to look less happy as the case against Jack Sparrow waxed grim.

"And how long do you suspect he'll get?" Holmes asked quietly. I thought it an odd question, for Holmes could estimate, based on the accumulated crimes, as well as anyone, how long the perpetrator's sentence might be.

"Oh, I'd say twelve to fifteen," Lestrade replied, after doing a little calculating. "Maybe twenty."

It was then that Lydia spoke up.

"This man saved my life," she said in a soft but steady voice, meeting Lestrade's gaze quite evenly. "If it weren't for him and for Dr. Watson, I would have fallen off the roof and broken my neck."

I didn't miss the grateful look that Jack shot Lydia at that moment.

Lestrade glanced questioningly at me, and I nodded, then briefly explained to the inspector the events which had taken place upon the roof.

"So you see, Lestrade," Holmes interjected once I was done, before the inspector could say anything else, "there are mitigating circumstances before us."

I knew Sherlock Holmes well enough to understand that he had already determined the balance of justice in his mind, and now had set upon the task of convincing the stalwart Inspector Lestrade to see things his way.

"Mitigating circumstances or not," Lestrade replied, his feathers clearly beginning to ruffle, "he's still committed the crimes. Perhaps they'll go easier on his sentencing at the Assizes knowing that he made the effort to assist Miss Hastings."

Holmes opened his mouth to put forth his next line of protest, but Sparrow spoke up first, offering my companion a grateful look.

"No worries, Holmes," the pirate said with a wan but somewhat roguish grin, "it's not like I haven't encountered this particular predicament before."

"I see. Lestrade, would you mind terribly if I had a word with Sparrow?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade frowned, clearly unhappy with the entire situation.

"Just a few points that I find it necessary to clear up," Holmes responded, sinking tiredly back into his chair. It was very like Holmes to want to know the minutiae of his cases, even as exhausted as he was.

"Well?" Lestrade inquired with ill-disguised irritation, prompting Holmes to get on with his line of questioning.

Sparrow, who seemed to be showing no untoward effects from the half bottle of rum, turned his attention politely towards Holmes.

"I assume, from your actions, that one draught from the Fountain of Youth is not enough to sustain a man's life indefinitely?" Holmes enquired.

"Nope. Ten years," Sparrow replied helpfully. "One drink, one decade."

"Aging ceases, wounds heal?" Holmes asked.

"Yep. I look pretty darn good for two hundred and nine if I do say so meself," Sparrow added with a cocksure grin. "Also, as my illustrious counterpart has so aptly demonstrated, should said wound be fatal…"

"Two days later life is once again breathed into the deceased," Holmes finished for him, looking quite sober.

"Bloody nuisance if someone has been overly efficient in seeing that one's apparently deceased remains are respectfully interred," Jack said with a grimace.

"One would imagine," Holmes replied, slightly unsettled. "And should one not obtain more water at the end of the decade, one resumes his place among the common mortals?"

Here Sparrow became more sober than I had seen him to date. He said nothing, but his dark eyes met Holmes's with a slightly haunted look, he shook his head once, and the message was clear: the end of the decade was the end of the decade.

"I recall," Holmes continued after a moment of reflection, "that you earlier mentioned having first drunk the water 'one hundred and seventy years ago to the month.' You're very short on time."

Jack shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned.

"But this is all cobwebs and moonshine!" Lestrade exclaimed, finally breaking in upon the conversation. "Surely you can't possibly believe that the Fountain of Youth is the explanation, Holmes?"

I couldn't blame the inspector for finding the topic of conversation somewhat fantastic.

"I have no other theory." Holmes's answer gave the impression that it was unyielding, and that he was almost as unhappy about it as the inspector.

No one said anything for a long moment, but I saw Holmes's gaze flick expectantly in Lydia's direction, almost as if he'd been timing when it was her question would come.

"So he's going to jail and that's that?" she asked unhappily, looking expectantly at each of us.

"I'm afraid so, my dear," I said quietly, taken aback at how disappointed I myself was at my own answer.

"The law must be upheld, Miss Hastings," Lestrade replied, doing his best to be kind in the way he answered her.

"But it doesn't seem at all fair," she complained to him, and although she spoke calmly, it was not difficult to miss the storm clouds gathering in those smoky grey eyes. It was elementary to deduce that Lydia, once her life had been save by Jack Sparrow, felt that her rescue at his hands should somehow count towards cancelling out his other infractions of the law, especially now that murder was not among them. No doubt was present in my mind that she had forgiven him already, and that she understood what being incarcerated and detained would mean for him. She knew, as did Holmes and I, that when Jack Sparrow made the decision to leave the flask to Barbossa and save her instead, that he knew he was risking trading his life in return for hers.

"Did I make it quite clear, Inspector, that I would be _dead_, if not for his unselfish actions?" she asked of Lestrade in an exceedingly polite manner, her unblinking gaze locked on his.

Lestrade opened his mouth, likely to answer her with a sharp comment, but I must give him credit for maintaining his composure and his professional demeanour.

"That you did, Miss Hastings," he replied, his tone mimicking hers, "and I shall do my best to emphasize that fact when I am called upon to testify."

I expected an angry reply or break in her stoic civility, but suddenly it was as if the gathering storm had dissipated with the whims of Mother Nature, and Lydia let go a sigh of obvious resignation and stood up calmly.

"Thank you, Inspector," she said tiredly, making the effort to offer him a brief smile. "I shall be in your debt for endeavouring to do so.

"Now, if you'll all excuse me?" she asked, looking to the rest of us and then making her way from the room.

Lestrade took that opportunity to stand and approach Sparrow. "Seeing as how we've all got a bit of a wait before the first morning train from Sandhurst," he said, "I hope you will forgive the precaution." He held up a pair of handcuffs and glanced at an empty armchair meaningfully.

Jack shrugged, roused himself from his ottoman, and sat down in the chair, allowing the inspector to shackle his right hand to the arm without resistance of any kind.

While Lestrade was preoccupied, Holmes leaned close to me, wearing a look both somewhat amused and contemplative. "If I were to ask you, Watson, who you think to be the most dangerous person in this room, what might your answer be?"

"You," I said without hesitation.

"Well, yes, that's likely true," he replied with a brief chuckle, "but aside from that?"

"Certainly Sparrow," I replied, wondering why Holmes would ask me such a thing.

"So my answer would have been until a half moment ago," Holmes replied softly. "I'm beginning to rethink it after the way our lovely assistant looked before she left the room."

"I saw nothing but acceptance and resignation, Holmes. She may not like it, but she's certainly bright enough to understand why the law is the way it is." I was about to comment, in mild exasperation, about Holmes's persistent mistrust of the fairer sex, when he spoke again first.

"I wager you underestimate her, Watson," answered Holmes. "Miss Hastings is a woman of no little patience and determination. She is educated and perspicacious; she has competed successfully with the men in her field and earned herself a coveted and somewhat eminent position at the British Museum. I daresay she is used to getting her way, mostly because of tenacity and fortitude of will."

"But don't you think it possible that her father had a hand in that?" I asked, bringing up the obvious.

"Propose that to Miss Hastings, my dear fellow, and I think you shall see the thunderclouds roll in once more," Holmes said with another brief chuckle. He hadn't missed her short lived expression of displeasure with Lestrade.

"Indeed, Watson, the look you saw before she left the room was one of resignation to an alternative course of action, not one of defeat. You mark me well. Women are dealt cards that men are not, and I stake my reputation on our lovely assistant playing from a hand which neither you nor I possess."

I was too exhausted to argue with Holmes at that point, and my head and shoulder were still throbbing dully, precluding much in the way of cohesive thought. Jack Sparrow had slumped back in his chair, looking pensive and largely unconcerned at being arrested and informed of his rights by Lestrade.

Lestrade looked as bad as I felt as he resumed his seat, setting his revolver on the table at his elbow now that Sparrow was secured. In fact, our small party was a sorry sight in general, much more bruised and battered than when we had arrived at the large old house in Owlsmoor.

Lydia's thoughts must have been running along the same lines, for a few moments later, after exploring the servants' quarters, she brought back a basket containing gauze and antiseptic, a bowl, towels, and a pitcher of water.

"Let's see that head," she said, coming to stand behind my chair. I allowed her to treat the small gash on the back of my skull from the impact of the rock. I must admit, although the antiseptic stung annoyingly, that it was not unpleasant to be tended to and have the dried blood cleaned from my neck by gentle feminine hands. When she was satisfied with the appearance of my minor injury, she moved across the room to Lestrade, knowing that nothing further could be done for Holmes's wound until I could get my hands on some suture.

"We should clean those," Lydia said to Lestrade, indicating the three linear gashes across his cheek. "They'll scar if they become infected.

"May I?" she asked pleasantly, holding up antiseptic and gauze.

Lestrade looked like he would have protested, had he not also appeared so weary, and he nodded and let her approach.

Holmes had been nonchalantly, yet purposefully, making a point of watching everything Lydia did from the moment when she had re-entered the room, and I could tell, although he was slumped in his chair and pained by his wound, that he was carefully monitoring her interaction with the inspector.

"One catches more flies with honey than vinegar," he murmured to me softly without looking my way.

"Holmes, what are you on about?" I asked, watching as Lydia tended the inspector's cuts the same way she had mine.

"Keep a close eye on her, Watson," he replied.

And so I did, listening to her speak to Lestrade of what had happened in the barn.

"That animal must have been quite fierce to have attacked you that way and done this," Lydia prattled on sympathetically as she finished cleaning the blood off his face.

"Wot, Jack?" Sparrow spoke up derisively from his chair. "Bloody monkey's only a foot high."

Lydia shot a sharp look his way. "So are the giant rats of Sumatra," she countered, "and you wouldn't take them so lightly. You'll have to remember, _Captain_ Sparrow, that not all of us have encountered an undead monkey before."

With that, she turned her attentions back to Lestrade. "It must have given you quite a start. I'm sure I would have fainted dead away at such a horrible sight, but you must be accustomed to seeing some awful things as an experienced investigator."

"Well, that is true," Lestrade answered, a bit of his cocksure manner returning at the vote of confidence from the pretty naturalist. "We witness some fairly unpleasant and sometimes difficult to explain events in my line of work. Isn't that right, Mr. Holmes?" he added, glancing in our direction.

"Quite," Holmes replied briefly, seemingly disinterested.

Lydia broke out the antiseptic and began applying it to Lestrade's cuts. I knew how much it stung, but I could tell that Lestrade was gritting his teeth and attempting not to let on just how intensely unpleasant it was in front of Miss Hastings.

"Oh, that must sting terribly," she said sympathetically. "Here, this will help." And before Lestrade could stoically protest that it wasn't anything she should concern herself with, the young woman leaned close and blew lightly on his cheek, drying and cooling the bitter antiseptic she had applied there.

If Lestrade had looked unsettled over the creature he had encountered, he was certainly having nearly as difficult a task in trying to maintain some semblance of composure under the close attentions of our comely young assistant. She'd charmed him once in the jail, and it was apparent that Lestrade was beginning to look a bit flustered, although not displeased, at all her fuss.

"That must be better?" she asked a moment later, tucking the antiseptic and unused gauze back in the basket.

"Much," Lestrade croaked. "Thank you."

Holmes glanced at me ever so briefly and raised a meaningful eyebrow, but I admit that I still hadn't perceived whatever it was he was convinced he had. We both watched her as she approached Jack.

"Come to tend to me bumps and bruises?" Jack asked her, a mischievous grin appearing. "You'll find it easier to do from here," he added.

Lydia's gaze dropped momentarily to where he was patting his knee, and then rose again to meet Jack's.

"I shouldn't think I would like to get that close to you," she said with minor disdain. "You're likely to have some foul trick up your sleeve."

Jack's grin became a full-fledged roguish smile. "Of course I do," he replied in a swaggering tone. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

Lestrade nearly rolled his eyes, while Holmes sat forward ever so slightly in his chair next to me as he watched their conversation unfold.

"Still, you should let me tend to that cut," she said, indicating the small laceration over one eye that I daresay was my doing during our scuffle on the roof.

"It'll be long gone in half an hour, love," Jack assured her even as she reached into the basket of supplies.

"As will I," he murmured to her softly, and then he leapt from his chair and for the second time that day, grabbed the poor girl, and pressed a knife to her throat. Gauze and antiseptic cascaded across the floor as Lydia cried out and dropped the basket.

Lestrade was on his feet in an instant, revolver trained on Sparrow, who was utilizing our lovely assistant as a human shield. I had also reflexively thrown myself out of my chair and was now frozen in place, wishing once more not to jeopardise the girl. Holmes, however, remained seated, appraising the situation calmly.

"Now," Jack said with some authority, "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but apparently it has. Please put down the gun, Inspector." When Lestrade didn't move fast enough for his liking, Sparrow jerked Lydia's arm behind her back just hard enough to elicit a small, pained gasp from her. Lestrade, obviously vexed at the turn of events, slowly set the revolver down again on the table at his elbow.

"I shall be going," Sparrow announced, "and to ensure that you gents don't do anything stupid, the lovely Miss Hastings shall be accompanying me.

"However," he continued, fending off the protests that Lestrade and I had started to issue, "I shall release her once we've made it outdoors, as long as I see no sign of any of you setting foot outside this house. In return for a head start of half an hour, I shall return your bonny assistant to you unharmed."

"Done," Holmes replied without hesitation, provoking a look of irritation and disbelief from Lestrade.

"But, Mr. Holmes!" The inspector's protest went unheeded by the detective.

"We have an accord, then?" Jack asked, addressing Holmes.

"We do."

"Then, once more, I must take my leave, gentlemen. Cheers!"

And with that Sparrow swept the two of them out the door and down the stairs.

Lestrade managed to contain himself for all of thirty seconds, but when the front door of the house banged shut below us, he ran to the window to see what was happening. Concerned for Lydia's safety, yet feeling somehow that Sparrow would be true to his word, I joined the inspector at the window.

Holmes, curiously enough, rose from his chair and crossed the short distance to where Sparrow had been sitting. He stared down at the medical supplies strewn across the floor, and then bent to examine them further. When he straightened back up, I swore he'd just tucked something in his waistcoat pocket, but his expression revealed nothing.

"He'll take her to the barn, I wager, and once he has the horse he needs, he'll set her free." Holmes made his pronouncement and then slumped wearily back in his chair.

Just as Holmes had predicted, a moment or two later a lone figure astride a horse rode out of the barn, quickly accelerating eastward, no doubt where the first pirate had also headed with monkey and horse. In the moonlight it was easy to visualize Lydia, calmly making her way back towards the house.

"Lestrade," Holmes added after a moment, "how many horses were left in the barn?"

"What? Why?" Lestrade asked, already hurrying across the room toward the stairs to check on the young naturalist. "There were three," he added when Holmes didn't reply to his own questions.

"Excellent. Might I suggest, seeing as how you are both the least incapacitated and carry the most authority, that you take the third horse to the village and arrange for a four-wheeler for our transport to Sandhurst? Oh, and you might rouse the local doctor, who, I am sure, is accustomed to being woken at all hours, and obtain whatever supplies Dr. Watson tells you he needs."

"But Sparrow…" Lestrade began.

"Will not be caught _this_ night," Holmes replied. "I shouldn't let it concern you, my good Lestrade. If Sparrow fails to catch up to Barbossa and the flask, you shan't have need of pursuing him further. If he succeeds, then you have ten years during which to find him."

Lydia returned at that moment, looking less harried than I should have expected for someone who had just been taken as a temporary hostage, and after replying to our queries that she was perfectly alright, sat down to listen to the remainder of the ongoing conversation.

"Well, I'd say it's not likely for him to hang about London waiting to be caught," Lestrade replied back with a fair amount of frustration and sarcasm colouring his words.

"No, I suppose not," Holmes replied blandly. He then adopted a pensive attitude and spoke again. "You know, Lestrade, I have ever been thankful that in my line of occupation I am not required to submit official paperwork, but I must say that I particularly don't envy you the report you shall have to prepare for this specific case."

"And why is that?" Lestrade asked.

"You plan to include all the relevant details?"

Lestrade frowned and spoke hesitantly. "Well, erm, I…that is…"

"Two hundred year old pirates, corpses breaking out of Scotland Yard, undead monkeys…" Holmes went on. "You'll have to explain that Sparrow escaped from custody on your watch, and that Barbossa, who was not actually dead, did also."

I'd rarely seen the poor inspector look less pleased.

"Not a report that I'd be anxious to hand in to the Chief Superintendent," Holmes said pointedly.

"You're sure you have no other theory?" Lestrade asked after a moment, beginning to sound desperate.

"No, but I do have a suitable _explanation_," Holmes said with some encouragement. "Fetch the supplies and arrange the cab, and by the time we get back to London, I think you shall have a report that, while not glowing, shall facilitate damage control and negate the need for the Yard to question whether or not you are in your right mind."

Looking like a tired and beaten dog, Lestrade headed out on his errand.

"Now, Miss Hastings," Holmes said to her, once he heard Lestrade exit the house, "will you be the one to return this to Inspector Lestrade, or shall I?"

The naturalist's face went quite red at that moment, and I saw that Holmes held in his hand Lestrade's key to the handcuffs he'd placed on Sparrow.

"Good heavens!" I gasped. I was quick enough to recognise that she must have taken it without Lestrade's knowledge, likely when she'd distracted him by tending to his wounds.

"You planned on slipping this to Sparrow after you'd tucked it into that basket of gauze," Holmes went on calmly.

Lydia said nothing for a long moment, and then spoke after taking a deep, fortifying breath and letting it back out. "I couldn't let him die after he saved my life, Mr. Holmes. As you stated, I was going to give him the key so that he might have a chance."

"And yet our pirate friend was already one step ahead of you," Holmes replied, favouring the young woman with a wan smile. "I suspect he released himself with one of the three sets of keys that he still had on his person after the constable assaults."

"But, Holmes," I began with a frown, "I never saw Sparrow undo the handcuffs."

"Of course not; you were much too absorbed with monitoring Miss Hastings' activities, and too focused on the same thing that Lestrade was to recognise that she'd picked his pocket."

"I recalled from the jail which pocket he tended to keep his keys in," Lydia said with a shrug.

"You knew!" I exclaimed suddenly to Holmes. "You knew that he was trying to escape, and yet you did nothing."

"_Au contraire_," Holmes replied, smiling again. "I saw to it that your attention was also applied elsewhere, thus relieving you of the burden of trying to decide whether or not you should rat him out for being a pirate, or bite your tongue since he acted as any other good man would."

"This isn't the first time that you've taken it upon yourself to decide that a man shouldn't be left to the law," I said, less annoyed with him than I ought to have been.

Holmes's manner became more serious. "No, I admit you are right, but it is quite one thing to leave a man to face the consequences of his crimes, and quite another to condemn him to death before he ever makes a court appearance to be accused.

"I do believe Miss Hastings agrees with me," Holmes added, tucking the key back in his own pocket. "I shall see to it that the key which Lestrade _dropped_ is returned to him upon his arrival back."

The two shared a look of understanding, and it was clear to me, once Lestrade had written the amended police report, that Jack Sparrow was going to disappear into the mists of London and of time.

~~o~~

Holmes was as good as his word, and by the time I had dealt with his wound and we had caught the first early train out of Sandhurst, he had managed to dictate to Lestrade a very simple explanation that involved Sparrow making his escape from Baker Street and not having been found after a long night of searching. Holmes was content to let Lestrade add that even he had been unsuccessful at tracking the pirate.

As for the disappearance of Hector Barbossa, Holmes smiled gently and said there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind, that upon hearing of his death, that a gang of drunken comrades from the Oxford club had broken into the mortuary, stolen the body, and seen that he'd had a proper burial at sea. Conveniently, the body would never wash back up onshore.

Once Lestrade had submitted his report and the case had been closed, he never spoke of the matter again; it was almost as if he preferred to treat things as if they never had happened. The scratches on his cheek took some time to completely fade, a constant reminder for a while of what exactly did happen that night in Owlsmoor, but when any of his colleagues asked what had happened to his face, he would mutter something vague about a female pickpocket that he had been attempting to arrest. The other inspectors would merely smile at his reticence in disclosing the details, amused at the idea of Lestrade getting cat scratched in a struggle with a woman.

As for Miss Hastings, she was filled with the same curiosity that I was, and the next day accompanied me to the celebration for Admiral Sir Wellesley's seventy-fifth birthday jubilee. Holmes elected to remain at home, trusting me to report back anything significant that we might find, and I left him in a deep sleep induced by his exhaustion and the dose of morphine I had given him to ease the pain of the wound from his duel. Although it would heal well under my medical supervision, he would always have a scar across his upper left arm.

The jubilee was a grand celebration, and Lydia and I joined an enormous throng of people to catch a glimpse of the ships upon the Thames. A little brochure had been available with the names and descriptions of most of the prominent vessels, both military and otherwise, participating that day, and although the brief histories and service records of many of them were fascinating, there was really only one ship which my female companion and I were interested in seeing.

We were not disappointed.

During a procession of some of the oldest vessels from the posts where Admiral Sir Wellesley had served, India and the Caribbean, there appeared among them, like a black swan among its paler compatriots, a ship which could only be the one we sought. Decked in celebratory colourful ribbons which contrasted sharply with the ebony sails, the _Black Pearl_ also flew a Jolly Roger, a salute to the fact, according to what Lydia read to me from the brochure, that the grand old ship had once had a reputation as the 'fiercest of pirate ships'. We shared a knowing smile, confident in the knowledge that the brochure was not completely accurate about the ship's questionable career being over. The crew of the ship was decked out in pirate costume, and although the colours waving overhead were those of the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, neither Lydia nor I could catch a glimpse of either of the pirates we had encountered, and we left to return to Baker Street, perhaps just a little discouraged.

Holmes had roused himself by the time we arrived back, and was ensconced in his armchair, cloaked in his dressing gown, and wreathed by a small fog of tobacco smoke.

"Well?" he asked expectantly, puffing contentedly on his pipe.

"She was there," I informed him, "and a bonny black thing she is indeed."

"Her colours?" Holmes asked. "Was she flying any?"

"Barbossa's," Lydia replied, sitting on the sofa next to me, "but there was no sign on deck of either of them."

"I see," Holmes replied absently, lost in thought for another moment.

"Do you think we'll ever know what became of him?" Lydia asked, clearly still concerned for the rogue who had helped save her life.

"I suspect," replied Holmes, emerging from his contemplative reverie at last and meeting her gaze, "that should Captain Sparrow be successful in his endeavour, that he won't be able to help but let us know." Holmes said nothing of the possibility of the pirate not succeeding, but I'm sure it was something that comprised part of all our thoughts.

"Well, I must be going," Lydia said, rising to her feet. She went to stand before Holmes' chair. "Thank you," she said to him, holding out her hand.

"For what, my dear Miss Hastings?" Holmes enquired. "I should be thanking you for your invaluable assistance."

"Jack Sparrow was not the only one who probably saved my life on that roof," she said pointedly, while Holmes waved off the notion dismissively with the pipe in his hand. "Indeed, I owe both you and Doctor Watson that debt. Pray, do call upon me if ever I might be of assistance in the future."

"I shall," Holmes replied, favouring her with a brief smile as he shook her hand. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," Lydia replied softly, and I admit to fighting off a grin as she bent over him, trapped as he was in his chair, and planted a small kiss on his cheek. He flashed her the briefest of unsteady smiles, most apparently discomforted by her affectionate gesture. If in fact he wasn't squirming in his seat externally, he certainly must have been internally.

I accompanied her to the door to say my goodbyes.

"I wager that we'll hear news of our curious friend in time," I said, trying to bolster hope for her.

She nodded, and then appearing to have made up her mind about something or other, stepped forward and quickly embraced me.

"Thank you," she whispered, stepping back after only a brief hug, so as not to seem inappropriate.

"You are most welcome, my dear," I replied warmly. "Do keep in touch, will you?"

"I shall," she said, smiling as she shook my hand, and after placing a similar chaste kiss on my cheek, she was gone down the stairs.

"I suggest you check your pockets, Doctor," Holmes said drily, and when I turned to face him, he wore a slight smirk that informed me he was merely implying, not that Lydia would have taken anything, but that I had been sufficiently distracted that she might have had the opportunity.

"And I suggest you check yours, my dear Holmes," I said in return, and I laughed as I held up the small box of matches which Lydia had pressed into my hand upon her departure.

~~o~~

Epilogue

It was a lovely, brisk, mid-October afternoon when I returned to Baker Street after my rounds, and I opened the door to the sitting room, only to find Sherlock Holmes rifling through his records, standing amidst a small avalanche of papers he had already carelessly discarded as he yanked more out of the folder in his hands, snarled in frustration, and then tossed them aside.

"Wilson, garrotter, June of eighty-five!" he cried in agitation, answering my question as to just what file he was looking for before I could ask it. "It is under neither 'G' nor 'W'!"

Calmly, I stepped next to him and retrieved the binder for 'S', holding it out to him.

Holmes stared at the folder icily for a moment and then lifted his gaze to meet mine.

"And why, pray, is James _Wilson_ the _garrotter_ filed under 'S'?" he asked with ill-disguised irritation.

I simply held up the file bearing the title _The Case of the Sussex Strangler_.

"Honestly, Watson!" he gasped, dropping the folder he held into the pile at his feet and taking the one I had offered him. "You do go out of your way to romanticise the titles of your accounts."

He flung himself into his armchair and tore open the file.

I was about to insist that I had thought the title rather catchy, when Mrs. Hudson knocked upon the door and then entered, a long, narrow box tucked under one arm.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she said, "I have a package that was delivered for Mr. Holmes."

She handed over the odd-shaped parcel and left, throwing a look of disgust over her shoulder at the small mountain of paper and then tossing up her hands in frustration.

Curious, I scrutinised the addresses on the label as I went to set it aside, but what I read made me hang onto it and read it again.

"Holmes, you have a package."

Holmes gestured at his desk without looking up from his file. "Just leave it there, if you would."

"I really think you're going to want to see this," I insisted.

Holmes let the hand holding the file drop into his lap in mild exasperation. "Watson, I _am_ busy at the moment. Just who is it from?"

"It doesn't say."

"Is there at least an address from the sender?" he asked, still clearly disinterested.

"All it says is _Tortuga_."

"Tor…" Holmes was on his feet quickly, and together we placed the package on the table and examined it. It was about three and a half feet long, eight inches wide, the same in depth, and only moderately heavy. It was addressed in neat handwriting, that of a man, to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at the appropriate address, and the postmarks confirmed that the parcel before us had indeed traveled all the way from the West Indies to reach us. Holmes cut open and stripped off the plain paper that had surrounded the likewise plain wooden box, and using the poker from the fireplace, gently prised off the lid.

Inside was a fair amount of straw packing material with a single sheet of paper resting atop it. Holmes held it up so that we could both read it at the same time.

_For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the only other man in two centuries to have crossed blades with Hector Barbossa and survived, compliments of the first. Cheers, mate._

_C J S_

The note was brief but spoke volumes, for CJS could only be one person: Captain Jack Sparrow. As we had last seen him in August with less than a month to live, and this was October, it was clear that somehow he had managed to catch up with his nemesis. Other than discovering that he'd recently been in the Caribbean, I wondered if we'd ever learn of his whereabouts again.

My musings were interrupted when Holmes reached back into the box, and shaking off the straw that covered it, raised an antique sword from the depths; the very one he had fought with that strange night in Owlsmoor. How it had come to travel to the Caribbean and back was a mystery even Holmes wouldn't theorize about.

"We shall have to inform Miss Hastings that he survived," I said, thinking that I would send off a quick letter to inform her of the arrival of the package.

"Somehow I think that she may already know," said Holmes, appraising the sword and then the walls of the sitting room as he looked for an appropriate place that he might hang it.

We would find out later that he was right, and that Lydia had, the same day, anonymously received a tiny box at the museum with the same vague return address. It contained a fine gold chain upon which was mounted a small, but singularly stunning black pearl. She knew, despite the lack of a note, precisely who had sent it.

Holmes placed the sword upon his desk, and distracted for the moment from whatever case had caused him to pull the Wilson file, sat back down in his chair and lit his pipe, drifting in thought as I took my seat across from him.

After several long moments of contemplating our adventure and the fact that Sparrow had survived, I finally decided to ask Holmes a question I had been meaning to for the past two months.

"Would you do it?"

Holmes glanced at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Drink from the Fountain, I mean, if given the chance," I clarified. "Would you extend your life for decades, perhaps centuries, if you had the opportunity?"

Holmes took the pipe from between his lips. "Would you?" he asked me.

I had had two months during which I had repeatedly revisited the notion, and I already knew my answer.

"No, I don't think I would," I said.

Sherlock Holmes smiled warmly at me for just a moment, and then his eyes drifted down to the file he lifted up off his lap.

"Then neither would I, my dear Watson," he said softly, still smiling. "Neither would I."

~~o~~

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who took a chance on reading this peculiar mix of characters, and to everyone who sent encouraging comments about it!

For the record, Admiral Sir George Greville Wellesley was a real person, and at about the time this adventure takes place, would have been, give or take a year, about seventy-five years old. He did in fact serve in India and the West Indies.

According to PotC lore, Jack Sparrow is (or was!) the only person to have ever dueled Hector Barbossa and lived. Of course, he cheated and Holmes got lucky, but all that counts is the outcome.

Oh, and I suspect, should Lady Broadnax manage to coerce poor Holmes into attending her upcoming Hallow's Eve party, that he and Watson will probably already have an idea for costumes. :)


End file.
